


Never Even Considered For Mass Production

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Cab, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Coming Out, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Getting Signed, M/M, Mutant Pride, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While auditioning for Pete Wentz, Ryan and Brendon’s abilities trigger. Lucky for them, Pete happens to know of a school that can help them learn control. The situation doesn’t get much better when the four arrive at Xavier’s School For Gifted Youngsters. Ryan Ross and St. John Allerdyce both have the same problem; their best friend is in love with some stupid girl, instead of them. Just when they’ve found their own solution, the United States military attacks the school. When Magneto offers to take them away, of course they accept.</p><p>Meanwhile, the Mutant Registration Act is gaining favour in the United States. Pete shows his opinion by attempting to sign a mutcore band to his label, to Joe’s approval, ignoring the difficulties Andy notes. My Chemical Romance takes a more visible stance, including but not limited to Frank outing himself and Gerard making scenes. Post Midtown ex-activist Gabe Saporta is looking for a new purpose in life, and ends up exactly where he was before. And Singer has to deal with the aftereffects of the mutant-outing headache that swept the world.</p><p>With so much hate in the air, sometimes there’s no choice left but to reinvent love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Even Considered For Mass Production

**Author's Note:**

> The bandom timelines are totally skewed; FOB is on hiatus, PatD has just been signed, MCR’s on Projekt Rev, Midtown just broke up, and The CAB are still in Cash’s basement.
> 
> Title comes from the quote "There he goes. One of god's own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, too rare to die." by Hunter S Thompson
> 
> Companion art made by Creepylicious can be found [here](http://creepylicious.livejournal.com/83162.html)

Pete’s looking for baby bands on his laptop in the dining room. Patrick always gives him shit for it, he says the entire point of a laptop is that you can carry it around and use it in more comfortable places like couches or beds. There’s a bit of legitimacy to the statement, but Pete has a thing for huge tables. He’s been off tour for over a year and he still hasn’t gotten over the joy of an expanse of real wood instead of five square inches of plastic covered metal.

The table in question is a beautiful mahogany, enough varnish to make the parts that are still visible shiny as hell. It’s massive, seats twelve, even though only he and Patrick live in the house and when he’s got enough friends over to need twelve chairs it’s not the sort of event that involves a dinner party. Not that he would give up his table for that bunch of fuckers anyway. His table is his baby, his day planner and his file cabinet all at once. He’s got a system; different boxes, crates, and sticky notes scattered as needed. Pete’s got seven different shades of Post It notes stuck all over the flat surface. He can only get the lime ones in a grocery store fifty minutes from the house, but it’s worth it. Bedroom laptops might bring you comfort, but in Pete’s house the dining room makes him king.

It’s the sound of something shattering that distracts Pete from the dozens of MySpaces he has tabbed. The sound came from the living room, and it only takes Pete a second to click pause and wander down the hall to investigate. Either something legitimately broke or Patrick is pissed enough to break something. Either way Pete wants to see, curiosity too piqued to rest unsated.

Standing at the open door frame of the room it's easy to see that the second guess was right. Well actually Patrick has broken two somethings: a glass frame on the wall by throwing the remote control at it.

“While I commend your dedication to the exercise we’ll get walking to the tv to turn the channel old school style, you realise we have a new tv that doesn’t have buttons?”

Patrick glares and Pete is suddenly grateful for being on the opposite side of the room. Not that he hasn’t dealt with Patrick having a fit before. Hell, half the time they were touring he was the reason Patrick was having a fit. But there are only so many times your not-quite-boyfriend, not-quite-fuck-buddy can smash you against the side of the bus and attempt to strangle you before you learn the signs. It’s not that you stop bugging your not-quite-boyfriend not-quite-fuck-buddy, you just make sure to stay out of the physical harm blast zone.

Still, ninety nine percent of the time Pete’s willfulness outweighs his need to remain safe. Nobody ever said he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. “Seriously, what?”

Patrick gestures wildly at the tv and for the first time Pete recognises what he’s watching. It’s C-SPAN, the senate committee, and Senator Kelly appears to be being a total asshat to Jean Grey. Pete can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Why are you even watching this shit? You knew it was going to piss you off when you turned it on.”

“Right, because you’ve never done something you knew would upset you.”

Pete would call it a low blow, but it isn’t, not really. If Patrick wanted to get dirty Pete can think of a dozen things to bring up. “Look, it’s not gong to pass. They won't make a registry, it’s just a Republican campaign of lameness.”

“They outed her!”

Pete doesn’t understand his outburst, and while that happens semi-often -he and Patrick and Andy and Joe all have their incoherent moments- Pete figures that this is something that needs to be understood. “What?”

“Senator dickbag, he told the entire fucking nation about a girl from Illinois that can walk through walls, and then asked what would stop her from walking into a bank vault, or into the White House, or into people’s houses.”

Okay, Patrick’s tantrum makes a lot more sense now. Patrick’s tantrum actually makes entirely too much sense now, and Pete holds back from having his own freak out. “Are you gonna call her? Call the school?”

“Jean Grey fucking works there, I’m pretty sure she’ll find out.”

Right, he should have remembered that. But it’s not like he’s ever had a chance to chat up all the professors at the school. Shit, he was lucky that the Stumps considered him enough of a family member to not kick him out when Xavier came to talk about Kathrine. “Did they say her family’s name? Do we need to-”

“What? Make a statement that I disowned her when she turned, please don’t stop buying Fall Out Boy albums, we love our royalties?”

“Fuck you!” That Patrick would think that isn’t even ridiculous. It’s just fucking offensive. Pete narrowly avoids crossing the room and punching Patrick’s stupid trucker cap off his stupid head, managing to restrain himself to merely punching a hole in the drywall. They’re kind of fucked for fixing it later, the wall is covered in wallpaper, but he doesn't care about that now.

“Fuck you Pete,” Patrick says tiredly. The older he gets the quicker the swing from meltdown rage to exhaustion. Well, too fucking bad. Pete’s not even close to being done this conversation.

“When in the hell have I _ever_ given the impression that I’m a Friend Of Humanity dickbag?”

“I’m sorry,” he says in the same tired tone. “You’re not. Can you not break my house now?”

“It’s my motherfucking house too!” It feels nice to shout. It’s even nicer to put emphasis on the words by punching a second hole in the wall. The torn wallpaper looks almost like eyelashes. “Don’t you _ever_ fucking say I’m like them! Ever!”

“Jesus Christ Pete,” Patrick mutters, and part of Pete knows Patrick meant him to hear it, and an even smaller yet highly sensitive part of him knows Patrick is doing this on purpose, feels better when Pete flails and rages about something so he doesn’t have to, but his tone still pisses Pete off. His knuckles are bleeding, fingers starting to swell pink under the stain of slowly browning blood, but the wall still has an expanse of plaster and calm is far in the distance. 

*

Bob knew when he agreed to do free sound he was doing it for a pro-mutant band. It would have been pretty much impossible to not know My Chemical Romance’s stand on mutant rights. Bob had been crammed in a few vans over the years, and My Chem was by far the most friendly. Most band members tended to slide headphones on and close their eyes for hours at a time, trying to give themselves some semblance of privacy. These guys weren’t like that, they were always talking, a combination of musing on potential crossovers and rehashing old stories.

Among other things, they all had mutant stories. Frank had a cousin that can make it snow, the entire neighbourhood knew and nearly everyone approved of Fourth of July pre-fireworks snowball fights. Mikey’s old roommate Rob could teleport, which made last minute beer runs convenient. Ray’s favourite teacher in high school was, when it got out she could put her hand on the overhead and remove it to find a sheet’s worth of notes written she almost got fired before the students protested. Gerard’s pretty much got a bug up his ass for equality rights of all kind. Hell, they toured with Midtown, one of the first mutcore bands. Ignoring all other instances, a month with Gabe Saporta would make you either love or hate mutants.

What he doesn’t find out until he’s already agreed to replacing Otter is that the band isn’t all human. It’s not a big reveal, or a confession, just him and Ray playing MarioKart on the newly gifted My Chem bus. Mikey's on the other couch plugging away at his DS and Frank’s face is pressed into a new book, misprinted with half the words in the margins, complaining every few pages but completely unwilling to bend the book further apart to read it -it breaks the spine, dude-, with Gerard passed out in his bunk after staying up all night drawing.

Ray presses his combo button and Yoshi shoots forward beyond the computer generated characters, Bob’s Luigi still in first place. He sighs apropos of nothing and says “I hope he learns to control himself soon.”

No one else replies to him, and Bob half wonders if he’s talking about computer generated Mario spinning out thanks to Bob’s dropped banana peel, but he still says “what?”

“Matt. His emotion squaring thing. I hope he learns to hold it in. Or at least not lose control somewhere where he’s gonna get the shit beat out of him.”

“What? Do you mean a power?”

“You didn’t know he’s a mutant? It’s not like we hid it in the van. Kind of impossible considering what it was. Every time one of us would get pissed suddenly the everyone was pissed. Or tired, or happy, or nostalgic, whatever.” So maybe Bob had felt a bit randomly moodswingy, it was nothing that couldn’t have been chalked up to weird European beer and feeling concerned about Gerard’s obvious problems. “Don’t get us wrong, we didn’t kick him out for being a mutant-”

Bob snorts, interrupting Ray’s explanation. “Yeah, I can’t see Gerard letting that happen.” Even while drunk, or detoxing, it’s the sort of thing the elder Way would raise hell about.

“It wasn’t like he was the only one with control issues. I wasn’t that great at times.”

Bob blinks, a fatal move that allows Yoshi to sneak past Luigi. He can’t be blamed though, he wasn’t really expecting that. “What? You’re-”

“Is this going to be a problem?” They’re Mikey’s first words, and he sounds even more guarded than he normally does.

Bob rolls his eyes. There’s not really a huge step from pro-mutant supporters to actual live mutants. If he was a bigot he wouldn’t have travelled overseas doing sound for them. “I just wanna know who I can’t jerk off around if they’re telepathic.”

Frank grins around the edges of his paperback. “You’re planning on jerking off around the rest of us? I dunno what they did on the tech buses but there are no circle jerks on the My Chem bus. Mikey and Gerard are brothers, and they both strongly believe that the other doesn’t have sex. A circle jerk would warp their fragile minds.”

“Fuck off. You know what I meant,” Bob grumbles, momentarily taking his hand off the controller to flip Iero off.  

In response Frank neatly puts his book down in the crack of the cushion between Mikey and himself, then runs the three steps across the bus and tackles Bob. He hears rather than sees his car crash, and Ray giggling as he drives to victory instead of pausing and waiting for Bob to rid himself of Frank, the big fucking cheater. Even if video and board game stipulations say you’re required to play through Random Acts Of Frank, the rule is only good until it doesn’t benefit you. Frank starts humping Bob’s side, Bob working to dislodge him, preferably onto Ray in revenge. For all intents and purposes the conversation is over.

It comes up later though. It can’t not. They’ve moved onto Donkey Kong, switching the bongos back and forth between levels, the Way beside each other with Frank in the back talking to Jamia. Bob’s sort of grateful for the lack of significant other, it makes touring life a lot easier. Gerard’s drumming out his combos and failing miserably when Ray twists to look at him and says “it’s just me and Frankie now.”

“Really?” Bob gestures across the bus. “Neither of you?” The Ways seem sort of made for superpowers.

Mikey shrugs. “God’s way of laughing at us.” Gerard make a grunt of agreement, and Bob suspects in the future he’ll get a lecture about how unfair it is. But for now at least the bus is safe from a rant. Gerard's beat count is getting dangerously near zero and he’s too focused on getting bananas to start up.

“So what can you two do?” It would be great if Frank was a healer or a regenerator, considering how often he gets sick or hurt. Though, since he gets sick or hurt so often without getting better it’s a large hint to him not having that ability.

Ray smirks. “Guess.”

“Dude there are like a billion possible things. Literally.” It’s not exactly a special snowflake situation, Bob knows, some abilities like weather manipulation or telekinesis are more common. But for every ten people that can make shit float with their brain, there’s the one person that can walk into other people’s dreams, or suck nutrients out of dirt and cardboard.  

“That’s why it’s called a _guess_ , Bryar,” Mikey explains with a lilt to his voice.

“I have no idea.” He’s about to ask for a hint when Ray’s hair springs into action, waving hello before beginning to braid itself. “Huh. That really explains more than it doesn’t.”

“I know, right? Like with something that epic it practically demands to be able to move of it’s own accord.” The distraction costs Gerard the level, Donkey Kong plummets to the foliage and his beats go to 0. He doesn’t much seem to care, not even when a hank elongates far beyond normal length to stretch and grab the controller from him. In fact, the move seems to delight him. Bob can’t really blame him, it’s sort of awesome.

“How long can it get?”

“About ten feet, last time I checked.” His hair is playing the bongos, and doing a much better job than Gerard’s hands did. Bob feels like a bit of an asshole for gawking, but it’s really fucking cool.

Mikey adds “it can pull a stalled car too. It’s bad ass.”

It’s not until the third time that it comes up that Bob starts to have his doubts about the wisdom of being in a band with mutants. Matt’s revelations makes a lot of sense in hindsight, and Ray’s is hardly frightening. But when Frank wakes him up from his nap Bob momentarily questions the decision making skills of himself, the band, the universe, and God-and-or-Fate as one so chooses. When Frank is feeling nice he wakes Bob up with a snuggle. Relatively speaking for terms of nice, ninety nine percent of the time Frank wakes him up for no good reason beyond _sleeping is for night time, the sun is up, Bob!_ When he’s feeling more impatient he shakes him until Bob tries to hit him.

When Bob wakes to a warmth down his side _and_ hands on his shoulders he figures Frank just talked Mikey into joining his quest. Mikey has as little regard for sleep as Frank does. Then he opens his eyes and sees Frank hovering over him while at the same time Frank is curled beside him, face half buried in his hoodie. There’s only one explanation, but Bob finds himself hoping for a correction. “You can clone yourself?”

“Up to ten copies!” hovering!Frank says, obnoxiously loudly. Snuggling!Frank just presses closer into his side. A possibility of ten Frank Ieros. The world is doomed.

*

They’ve all got a lot of stuff to do, these days. Fall Out Boy going on hiatus didn’t in any way mean a calmer life for anyone, it just meant different. Sometimes Joe wonders how different, because they all still talk and text every day, they all still get recognised, they all still make music. It’s the little things that have changed. Having an expanse of cupboards with munchies instead of a foot of counter, everything crashing to the floor with a sudden stop. Not having dog hair on everything. He wonders if it’s the details that matter, if they knew when they broke up that only the smallest things would change, or if they really, naively thought whole new worlds would open. There’s nothing new about this, it’s almost like travelling back in time; Pete setting the public opinion on what’s cool and what’s not, Patrick using instruments instead of his voice, him and Andy greasy and reeking in a van. It’s like they’re all back in 1999.

Still, hard rock and acapella and club vs pop-punk, the beat of music has to forever go on. It’s kind of scary, kind of _right_ that Pete’s now in charge of making sure that happens. When he asks Joe to come with him to listen to a fledgling band in Nevada he doesn’t think for a minute before saying yes. Joe’s got an eye for bands, at least as good as Pete, if not better. Pete just thinks more about stuff like marketability, how to explain to those with money why it should be them. Joe’s better with just pointing and saying ‘it needs to be them’.

The band really is a fledgling band, in the baby sense of the term, not the bird sense. There’s no way they’re older than sixteen, and even though Joe was out around that age it looks different from the other side. The band is also incomplete, apparently the bassist and the drummer are both busy. Pete looks congenial, which puts the singer at ease a bit because he doesn’t know Pete’s normal attitude, doesn’t know _nice_ doesn’t bode well for them. Yeah, it’s a pretty bad sign when half the band can’t be bothered to show up for potentially being signed, but Joe doesn’t want to leave yet. He heard the tracks on the flight, amongst other things Pete found online and had to show him. Electronica isn’t Joe’s strongest suit, but he thinks it could be a thing.

Joe’s seen people flush with frustration before. You don’t go on tour without seeing meltdowns in multiple forms. Combinations of close quarters, lack of hygeine, interrupted sleep, bad food and demanding fans can make for pretty interesting outbursts. Andy throws things, but Patrick always was the ‘blush then try to break Pete’s hyoid bone’ type. If half of Joe’s band bailed he’d be pissed, so he can understand how the kid with the guitar is feeling. The thing is, flushing involves pink to red skin. Ryan is kind of green-yellow, like the sickly glow in the dark stars still in Joe’s room at his parents house.

They start the song and it goes pretty well, sounds as decent as it can with the laptop playing the part of the missing drummer and the synth behind it. Joe can see teenagers getting into this, can picture people leaving it on rather than changing the channel when it comes on the radio while driving. And the singer, Brendon, he’s pretty hot, which might not matter if Pete was looking for metal, but matters for this type of music.

Then Brendon trips in one of the many cracks in the concrete floor of the garage. He plays it off pretty well, all considering. He doesn’t burst into a flurry of swears -again, something that could work in metal but not for electronica-, he even continues singing on his knees, like a missed handshake turns into a hair swoop, an _I meant to do that_ movement. It’s the guitarist that lights up with fury. Literally. He gets brighter and brighter until it’s like looking into a fluorescent tube from an inch away. “Brendon, could you at least _attempt_ professionalism?”

It’s the last word that breaks it completely. The light floods out of Ryan and hangs in the air; a five foot ten oval of light. Joe looks away immediately. Staring at that is probably as unhealthy as staring at the sun. Brendon stops singing and only the sounds from the laptop remain.

Into the relative silence Joe asks “was that necessary?” He’s not sure if he’s talking about the random showing off of mutant ability, or the intra-band yelling. A bit of both, really, both are dick moves, and it’s pretty lucky for them that Pete’s not turned off by assholish behaviour. Ryan doesn’t comment. Joe turns his head back. If Ryan’s smirking, screw the decent music, he’s gonna tell Pete it’s not happening. They’ll never get a good tour going if other bands and techs all hate them, and if he’s an asshole to someone in a higher position than him, he’ll definitely be an asshole to fans, and that’s never cool.

Ryan’s not smirking. Instead he’s staring at his hands, which hold a residual glow. Brendon is staring at him too, blinking rapidly like he never bothered to look away from the burst of light. Brendon’s shock-awe and Ryan’s shock-horror make Joe think that this is something new. Before he can ask Pete steps in. “Was that your first?” Ryan doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even move, but it’s obvious. “It’s okay, you’re all right. No one’s gonna tell. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Brendon stands and makes his way over to Ryan, watching his feet so he doesn’t wipe out again. Joe’s expecting him to curl an arm around his shoulders, say it’s fine, or that he’ll be great to lean against in order to read in their van, or something else kind and vaguely amusing that’ll take the edge off the situation. Instead he leans in close but doesn’t actually touch him, except maybe mouth to ear. He says loud enough for everyone in the room to hear “auditioning for Pete Wentz. Pull it together, Ross.”

It’s hardly kind, or tension relieving, but it seems to work. Ryan stands up straighter, shakes his head until his fringe is directly covering his eyes. His glowing hands settle over the strings as Brendon fiddles with the computer until it starts playing their next track.

Mutant guitarist or not, they’re good. Pete looks over to Joe at the end of the three songs, but his nod is just saying what he knows Pete’s already thinking. Hell, between the soft spot he has for Patrick’s sister, and the way he likes to push equality, mutant guitarist probably makes it better. Pete gives them the yes, and it’s hardly surprising that Ryan shoots out another oval of light. If he’s a newbie he must have less than no control.

“We need to go to the hotel. We haven’t even dropped our shit off, just came straight here. But we’ll hang out tomorrow, go for lunch or something, talk about what this means, what else you guys need to do to be ready for a tour, okay?”

Both of the kids seem terrified by the idea. “Look, we’re not going to disappear. We can’t, neither of us are mutants. But if you want...” Joe plunges his hand into Brendon’s pocket, and sure enough finds a cell phone in it. He quickly programs two numbers. “Those are us. Not Decaydance, but us. If you need to call at four in the morning to make sure we haven’t turned into pumpkins, call him. He’ll most likely still be awake. Men like me need our sleep.”

Ryan coolly thanks him, obviously embarrassed at being so transparent. Brendon doesn’t have the same issues. “It’s just.... Really, you’re signing us? Really?”

If Joe was a jerk he’d laugh at his enthusiasm. Instead he just pats on Brendon on his slightly wriggling shoulder and says “yep, time to run home and tell mom and dad you made it.”

It’s like someone has slammed a door right into him. The table the laptop is on jolts away from Brendon too, only Pete’s quick movement saves it from shattering on the concrete. Of course, Joe’s the only one on his ass. Directly behind him is the table, in front of him is the invisible wall that hit him, meaning he can’t get up. “Could you, like, turn that shit off?”

“No? I don’t really know how to control it? It just sorta happened? Sorry.”

“Shit, you too?”

Pete pushes the table along the wall, leaving a space for Joe to stand up in. Of course he can’t be content with helping, he needs to explain too. “Occurs with stressors, Joe. Good or bad. It’s not every day you get signed to a label.”

Half an hour later Pete is in the middle of convincing Joe the complimentary coffee at the hotel isn’t worthy of their mouths, they need to call a cab to take them to Starbucks. Of all the members of all the bands Joe’s ever been a part of, he’s the least picky person he’s ever met when it comes to coffee. He could drink decade old grounds mixed with dirt and cookie crumbs and enjoy it. But Pete’s got a mighty whine, and most of the time it’s easier to give in than try to fight. Joe’s just about to capitulate when his phone vibrates. A quick glance reveals a text from Ryan. He wonders if it was a mistake to give them both their personal numbers, but it’s too late now if it was. Hopefully he’s just a frequent texter, not someone that’s going to post the numbers online.

_went to tell spencer the news._

Joe’s pretty sure that’s the missing drummer, not the missing bassist. Joe sincerely hopes he shows up to the brunch-lunch-whatever the fuck Pete decides tomorrow, otherwise the future of Panic At The Disco is pretty fucked. One busy is on the fringe of acceptable, two is straight up bailing. As he starts to type in a reply, a second text comes in, then a few more in rapid succession.

_he’s bright pink.  
can blow bubbles with his mind.  
he won’t come out of the bedroom.  
can you tell him he’s going to be fine._

Apparently Pete’s gotten the same thing, or at least something close. “I think they need to go to the School.”

Joe knows it’s futile but he says it anyway. “You’re not their dads.”

Sure enough, “like their dads will know how to deal.” So not only is Pete their future manager, he’s also adopted them. Joe should have seen it coming. He can only hope Patrick won’t kick his ass for it. 

*

The new kids have been around for about a week when Rogue decides to talk to the shaggy haired boy. Something has to be done, has to be said before he gets in too deep. In some ways she’s really most qualified. She scares people, boxes them into the arm of the couch and waits until they’re willing to listen to her. At this point it’s likely that shagboy needs to be scared straight; he wouldn’t have gotten this far if he had the ability to not succumb to peer pressure. Rogue’s not sure which one of the three forced him into it, but it should be relatively easy to make him think again. They’re losing their tight grip on each other, each having hooked up with their own mutant buddy. Rogue’s pretty sure none of the teachers actually asked someone to be the new teens’ friends, show them the ropes. Various people just stepped up to the challenge because that’s how it works here, people doing what needs to be done.

The hyperactive one is the only boy she actually knows the name of. He’s Brendon, still insisting that he doesn’t need a mutant name, that pretty soon he’ll have learned what he needs to, and the only thing anyone will have to call him is _the hot singer from Panic At The Disco that I used to know_. Rogue thinks it’s pathetic that he actually thinks he’ll ever have a life beyond what his power is. At most he’ll be bodyguard for a band, protecting them inside his range. That is, if he ever gains control. She only remembers his name because every time he fidgets in class his powers turn on, pushing all the desks and chairs around him away, and the teachers have to remind him about control. He and Jubilee suit each other, they’re both complete spazzes. The one with the facial expressions has fallen head over heels with Boom Boom. And the sarcastic one has bonded with King of Rude, St John Allerdyce, for which she can only be grateful. Rogue can only hope if they become best friends John will detach himself from her boyfriend. Not only will she no longer have to put up with his prescence, Bobby will stop hanging with a bad influence.

But that’s not the point. The point is Brendon and Mr Expression and Sarcastic are all having random outbursts of their power, like they should be. It’s the reason Xavier accepted their admission to the School. Shaghair on the other hand, has had a single slip of power in the seven days he’s been here. Not just not in front of her, Rogue’s asked around and everyone says the same. Brent, apparently, is in complete control of his mutant ability. Which means only one thing.

It’s surprisingly easy to get him alone. It’s a moment long inquiry to find out he shares a room with Brendon on the third floor, and all she has to do beyond that is wait in one of the games rooms until Brent splits from the herd. She can’t really blame him, his friends are being stupid. Brendon is trying to get Jubilee to shock him before his forcefield pops up, Map Walker filming the whole thing. Expressions is trying to convince Colossus to draw him a picture of Boom Boom, and Bobby and John and Sarcastic are talking about something, though she’s not really listening.

When Brent goes to his room she follows a few feet behind him. She might not be the best at stealth in the Danger Room, but she can at least handle walking behind somebody. Once he’s in the room she enters, and leans against the door. It’s foolproof, no one would risk pushing her aside. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”

“Um. I’m, uh, a mutant?”

“Hardly. You haven’t had a single flux since you got here. Unless, wait, is it just ‘cause this is a better atmosphere, and at home you were breaking out?” That would be understandable.

“No? I mean, sometimes I had to tell my mom to not use that dogfood because Whiskey hated it. And Kelly had this budgie, and it hated me, and I couldn’t make out with her if it was in the room. But no. But I mean, it’s nice here too, I’m not dissing here.”

Rogue blinks. Surely she didn’t hear right. His mom knew and only altered the pet’s menu instead of freaking out that her kid spoke to dogs? “Seriously, if your parents and your girlfriend don’t care what are you doing here? You’re completely passable, it’s not like you’re Pixie.”

“My band is here,” Brent shrugs, like it’s that simple.

“And your life is at home. Do you know how often I wish I could go home? Everyone here does, even if they pretend not to. Even if their homes were really really bad. You can’t just throw that away!”

“Pete Wentz was gonna sign us.”

“Maybe. If the rest of your band learns control. Or maybe he’ll want a drummer that isn’t bright pink, or a singer that can touch people.”

Brent shrugs again. “I don’t think that’s a thing. He’s the one that brought us here, he’s not scared of mutants. It could work. You wouldn’t really see Spencer on the back of the stage, and if Ryan lost control they’d just think it was a lighting malfunction or something.”

“There’s a difference between not being scared and thinking they’re marketable. I know the band means a lot to you, obviously it does or you wouldn’t be here. But you need to think about it. Are Brendon and Spencer and Ryan really more important than your mom and dad and girlfriend? Forget them, are your band mates really more important than your own life? You could have one, if you don’t decide to throw it away.” She’ll never have anything more than fighting for the X-Men, and eventually dying, or going insane from all the leeched people’s voices spinning in her brain. Brent though, he could be different. He could go to college, or have a career. Something real.

“Are you done lecturing me now?” His voice doesn’t give her hope. His gaze, on the other hand, does. He’s staring at his phone, and everyone knows that nine times out of ten if he’s texting he’s talking to his girlfriend. If he wants to talk to her that means he wants to see her, which means she’s won. Brent’s life sorted out she goes back down the stairs to attempt to pry Bobby from the two jerk brunets. With Logan gone Bobby’s the only other male that interests her, and she hardly wants to share him. 

*

Gerard doesn’t know Frank’s going to do something until it’s already done. The set list calls for Thanks For The Venom next, but as Gerard’s waiting for the guys to start the fans seem to flip out about something, and the amount of cameras and cell phones raised in the air doubles at the least. Gerard whirls, expecting Frank to be doing a headstand or kicking Mikey in the nuts. He’s not, what he’s doing is far more interesting.

What he’s doing, is splitting. There are suddenly three Frank Ieros on stage. By no means the limit of what he can do, but they’ve been really fucking careful to cover for Ray and Frank all these years, and even two Franks would be more than anyone would expect.

It doesn’t stop there. One of them grabs Mikey’s bass, another Ray’s guitar. Gerard wonders for a moment if they were all in cahoots for this, or if Frank stealthily learned the other two parts. Either way he doesn’t have long to think about it before he has to bust in with “sister, I’m not much a poet, but a criminal...”

After they’re done, Gerard knows this is his chance to say something. Frank is going to absorb himself soon, and sure they’ll have to answer interviews for the next ten years, but this is the shining moment, the first reveal. Tonight is going to be viewed a million times or more on Youtube, and Gerard wants to make it good.

“Who here is a fuckin’ mutant!” the crowd is conspicuously quiet for Americans, it’s like they’re touring Japan again. “Who wants to be?” near silence, and that’s just not cool. “Every fucking body does! Be proud, and fucking loud! I wanna see everyone who can do something without hurting somebody show your shit off! I can feel you, can you feel me?”

A ball of flame bursts into the air in one corner, a swift breeze from another corner drifting it higher and stronger for a moment before the owner of the first extinguishes it. A girl’s voice pummels _I’m oh fucking kay_ into his head and surely the head of everyone else in the building.

“You think me and Frank on each other is great?” Confused by the new state of affairs or not, the fangirls know what they like and are vocal about it. “You wait until it’s Frank on Frank!” A group scream erupts and somewhere between that and the thoughts he’s put in his own head Gerard finds his hand rubbing over his crotch. Unconscious move at first, he continues it long enough that he knows there will be pictures on Tumblr.

“Do you motherfuckers hear what I hear?” The fans seem to surge like being nearer the stage will let them know what he’s talking about. Gerard theatrically cups a hand to his ear. “Iiiiii hear a kiss chant.”

The fans know a cue when they hear it. Within seconds the entire stadium is rocking with _kiss, kiss, kiss_. For a minute Gerard thinks the Franks are gonna do it. Instead bass Frank seizes Mikey, rhythm Frank goes after Ray and first Frank attempts to get Bob on the rider. First Frank has the worst luck, Bob using his drums like a shield and rapping Frank’s knuckles when he tries to reach over. Ray gamely stands still for a peck, but Toro’s always been straight. If it wasn’t too awkward to contemplate Gerard would say Mikey seems to be enjoying his kiss with Frank. Gerard himself gets no love, but that’s fine, he can wait until after the concert.

After bass Frank is finished, Mikey reluctantly letting go of his ass, both duplicates rush to Frank. It only takes thirty seconds for him to absorb them. Gerard’ll never get sick of watching it, even if he and Frank are still best friends at ninety. It looks freakin’ cool; first he wiggles like jello then he gets sucked into himself.

The rest of the night goes by in a flash, singing and making the occasional pro-mutant comment. He’s never hidden his beliefs, but tonight’s the first night it’s come up on stage. Later, when they’re signing, a boy with a mohawk makes Gerard’s pen dance in a six inch tall tornado. He thanks him for being an out mutant, and that’s when Gerard realises lines might have gotten a bit crossed. He’s not going to take it back though, not now. Not when it’s so important.

Unfortunately not everyone feels the same way. He’s barely had time to change into a hoodie when both My Chem’s manager and the singer of the headline band climb onto the bus. Everyone else is on a munchies run, and Gerard doesn’t really want to have this conversation, but better him than Frank.

Chris starts. “Gerard, you’re seriously like one cause away from being U2. Don’t make this tour be lame. Please.”

“It’s not lame to care. And for the record I’m not the one that outed us. Not that I’m pissed at Frank or anything, it was about damn time, really.” He scratches his cheek and shakes his hair back into position. “I’m just making My Chem’s stance clear.”

“You’re lying about what you are. It’s worse than your stupid stage gay. That pisses off the fans, and this is going to make shit a lot worse.”

Gerard doesn’t even know where to start. This is exactly why he had reservations about this tour, the headliners are fucking tools. “I’m positive I’ve already informed the crowd that if they don’t like it they can break their CDs and burn their shirts, we don’t fucking want their money. It’s not stage gay, I’m not doing it to get fans off, I can make out with guys if I want to, it’s fun. And no one gave Tatu shit. Why are bi women safe and bi men aren’t?”

That’s when the manager steps in, fingers pinched on the bridge of his nose. “Holy shit, Gerard. I’m not getting into a sexuality in society debate with you right now, that’s not the point of this.”

“Then what?” Gerard’s almost certain whatever he says, he’s not going to like it.

“What do you think? _Frank_ is a mutant, and _you’re_ spouting mutant propaganda and _I’m_ the one that has to deal with it.”

“No. Frank is. Frank is the one they’ll hate for no reason, Frank’s the one they might bottle, and Frank’s the one that’ll have to do a hundred stupid interviews. I’m rubbing against whoever I want to rub against, I’m cheering on every mutant fan, and you know what? Maybe My Chem will refund ticket money for every teenager that gets into a fist fight with some Friend of Humanity fucker.”

“We’re never touring with you again, just so you know.”

“Fucking gladly.” As far as ultimatums go, it’s incredibly weak. Gerard can say pretty conclusively that no one in the band actually wants to be with this group of assholes anymore.

“Fuck you, cocksucking mutie.”

Gerard smirks. “Is that supposed to be offensive? What part do you wanna hear about first, Frank’s dick in my ass, or Frank’s dick in my ass while his second body’s dick is in my mouth?” Not that that’s ever happened, Frank doesn’t duplicate in bed, but Chris doesn’t need to know that.

He takes a swing before he’s dragged out of the bus. They’ll probably want to conceal the black eye with make up tomorrow, but Gerard plans on using the darkest blue eyeshadow he can find to highlight it. If the band is taking a stance, they’re going to be active about it. 

*

With Ryan and him sharing a room things really do become much easier. At least, it’s easier for what John’s planning, and for them in general. Spencer and Bobby might feel hurt but fuck them. John’s not spending another minute sleeping in the same room as Bobby, not if he doesn’t have to.

While John hates Spencer so Ryan doesn’t have to -Ryan does the same for Bobby for his benefit- John has to grant Spencer that at least he doesn’t know why Ryan and Bobby switched rooms. He even went as far as asking Jean Grey if it’s possible that Ryan’s allergic to the bubbles his pores are constantly blowing. Ryan’s truly in love with an idiot. Everyone can see how head over heels Ryan is, his poker face only works on things not Spencer Smith related. Even their spazzy, innocent Mormon friend knows. He said he felt bad for not offering to share with Ryan, but the roommate that got slotted into Brent’s spot was still having instability issues and Brendon didn’t want to make them worse.

Ryan hasn’t told Spencer how he feels, and John’s not sure he ever will. His crush on Bobby is different. It’s less secret, more unrequited. Except it’s not even that. Bobby’s told him he likes him too, but Rogue is easier. It’s the biggest load of bullshit John’s ever heard. Of _course_ Rogue is easier, Bobby doesn’t have to show her any affection. Sometimes he doesn’t need Ryan to hate Bobby, he can do it just fine all by himself.

For the last two days they’ve been sharing a room. John used a basketful of different techniques to convince Bobby it was for the best if he moved all his shit into Spencer’s room, and between the fire nipping at his eyebrows and the threats to download gay porn onto his computer and show Blaire, who would tell Rogue, Bobby left. It’s their mutual hope that proximity widening will make their feelings less aching. John hopes more than that though. He’s never been in love before, but he does remember being at the gay youth club at home before he manifested. Wanting a particular guy with an eyebrow piercing and being turned down, only feeling pain until the guy in the mohawk took him to his car for mutual blowjobs. If love is as fickle as lust, it might be possible to force himself into wanting Ryan.

When he mentions it to Ryan, he doesn’t shoot him down immediately. Instead Ryan nestles his pen in the spine of his journal and closes the cover. John’s known him long enough to know that means he’s composing his thoughts. He’s expecting a list of reasons why he’s a moron for suggesting it. On the contrary Ryan gracefully unfolds himself from the middle of the bed and takes the few strides to him. Before John can open his mouth, Ryan’s hands are on him, pulling him tight against him. It’s moments before Ryan’s tongue is in his mouth, John provides no resistance.

Ryan pulls away, face flat. “So that didn’t work.”

“At all,” John adds, biting to Ryan’s dry.

It’s unfortunate, really. Ryan has just about the perfect personality, sarcastic, blunt, strong. And it’s not like he’s a dog either. John prefers thicker guys, but then, so does Ryan. But before Bobby he didn’t really have a type, just slept with whatever guy came up to him. If he’s to understand Brendon, Ryan didn’t really have a before Spencer. That probably makes it harder and easier.

“You want to fuck anyway?”

“Might as well.”

Ryan starts to strip, pulls the worn tongue of his studded belt out of the ornate skeleton buckle. John follows suit, sort of. He just has jeans and a long sleeved shirt, he doesn’t have a vest to hang over the desk chair, or a newsboy cap to take off.

“Do you want to top or bottom?”

“I’m not a virgin,” John snaps. He’s not in any sense of the word, though the girl thing was a mistake which is not be repeated.

“Didn’t say you were,” Ryan replies. It’s the smooth tone of someone not wanting to bog down a hook-up, John would recognise it anywhere.

“I don’t care, I just want to get off.”

“I’ll bottom then.” It’s probably a good thing, really. He’s not a virgin, but he hasn’t been fucked since he came to the school. If Ryan’s as well versed in this as he is, he’s probably much more prepared, being so new to the school.

It goes simply, like sex normally does. His fingers inside Ryan with probably too much lube dripping down his hand and onto the sheets, Ryan’s bony leg digging in where it’s curled around him. His cock inside Ryan with probably not enough lube, just a quick movement of his hand on his dick before he presses in. Ryan biting his lip, then John biting it for him. The small extras that make it different for mutants; Ryan creating a blaze of light above them as he comes, John incinerating an illicit cigarette someone is smoking on the first floor.

After, John can’t help but ask. He knows the truth of the situation, but he’s never been good at not pushing, and so he asks. “You magically fall in love with me?”

“No. You magically fall in love with me?”

“No.”

Ryan scratches at the come on his stomach, already starting to dry to a crust. “It was a long shot.”

“Yeah.”

It’s Ryan that speaks up again, minutes later, after he’s back to fully dressed and part combed to perfection. “It’ll do though, until.”

“Yeah, until,” John agrees. They can both hope, it never hurts to hope. 

*

If you ask him, Frank’s power is the best of anyone he knows. Yes, June snowmen are an entertaining waste of time, and it’s true that Gabe's ability to be whomever he wants to be for a few short hours could be fun and or useful. But Frank is the only person he knows that doesn’t have to have what ifs. Maybe even the only person in the world, some abilities like telepathy are more common, but he’s never heard of another splitter.

He’s missed a lot of the earlier once in a lifetime chances, some combination of a stupid desire to be normal and lack of confidence in his control mixing to stifle himself. He never took Steve to prom, he went with Jamia instead. His major at Rutgers was psychology, even though culinary arts had a sort of siren call with it. It’s not that he regrets anything, it would be hard to look back and curse the road he took while he’s standing in the place he is. But Frank knows how to handle himself now, and he knows he never again has to worry about what ifs, or either-or situations. He is now officially done with Schrodinger box, he’s going to be both cats from now on.

Now that he’s out, Frank has plans.

Frank knows better than to check any media before he leaves. Sure, there will be a ton of people that are cool with him. But there will be just as many saying he’s going to ‘convert their children’, like it’s possible to choose to be a mutant. Just like sexual orientation, it’s at least partially genetics and hormones. And just like sexual orientation, if it _was_ a choice, a good portion would probably choose to be ‘normal’. Gerard’s antics aside, not everything thinks being a mutant is the best thing in the world. Still, there’s only so often he can have the _it’s not a choice, dickbag_ conversation before declaring the person a deaf, blind, and dumb lost cause. He’s in too good of a mood this morning to deal with the hate mail.

Hell, he doesn’t really even want the positive stuff. It’s only been a day, and already his inbox is full. He’s been avoiding opening any of it, he already knows what it’s all going to be. They’re going to ask him to show up at rallys, to do campaigns. Frank just wants to be out, he doesn’t want to be a spokesman of the year. They might give Gerard shit sometimes, but last night was at least partly because of him. Frank knows Gerard believes everything he said, but he might not have said it in front of a crowd of two thousand if Frank hadn’t outed himself. Gerard put himself in the spotlight to take it a least a bit off him. Now they’ll do revealing interviews of the same five questions for thirty different magazines together, instead of just Frank suffering alone.

Except this him isn’t going to be doing any interviews. Or at least not manager approved ones. He’s gonna get TMZ or Perez Hilton blitzes, unflattering pictures as he picks up dog food, because he’s going home. Or rather, one of him is, the other staying on tour. They have a very clear exception list, it’s understood and accepted that he will always have Gee and she will always have Erin. But if he can really be home all the time as well as playing all the time, life will be perfect.

Frank’s not concerned about leaving a duplicate with the band. It’s not like a photocopier, each copy of a copy getting shittier and shittier until it’s just a smear of black against the page. Each of him is exactly him, aside from the build up of different memories that he has to reconcile when he finally reabsorbs himself. He’s tested everything he can think of and none of his copies have ever done anything differently, for better or for worse, than he has. He still has that VHS recording of him at fourteen, breaking into the school music room so eight of him can all play Red Hot Chili Peppers Turn It Again together, in one of his Memories boxes. His duplicate won’t fail on stage, if he had any doubt he wouldn’t leave.

When he splits though, he opens his eyes to himself naked and his other self duplicated. It’s the one question he’s never been able to reconcile; if this is a one time accidental shift in primary consciousness, or if it always feel this way. Logically he knows he’s the duplicate, the balls that are trying to retreat into his body under the air conditioning is proof. But he doesn’t _feel_ like the duplicate, and he knows if he questions the dressed Frank, that one will say he’s fully aware too.

“Look. You stay here, I’m going to go home.” Dressed him shrugs, and Frank grabs a dirty pair of underwear and one of the grimier shirts. He’ll have time to wash it before tour him will, might as well help alleviate some of the stink of the bus.

Frank doesn’t bother to check in during the flight home. There won’t be anything interesting going on, they won’t be at the venue yet, and even if they were they’ve pretty much been giving the rest of the asshole bands a wide berth. Mikey’s jokes and Ray watching Total Recall for the hundredth time aren’t worth it, not when he’s got one of the books a fan’s given him to read.

Knowing what’s going on with his other current bodies is like text messaging. It’s a basic summary, a content equivalent to a 150 character message. Frank asks what’s happening, and the duplicate tells him. Back in the beginning -and again after he told Mikey who instantly told Gerard- he tried, but all they can get is messages, not use each other’s senses. It’s on need to know basis though, privacy until whenever he next absorbs himself. It’s not like a parent calling home from a business trip, if he can’t trust a duplicate he literally can’t trust himself. That being said, if this is going to be a months long process he should probably brain text more often, so he’s not overwhelmed with five months worth of completely new memories the next time absorbs himself.

It’s not long from the airport to the house, and he’s got just enough cash to pay the cabbie, emergency credit card and all his other information with his duplicate. One benefit of being out is that he’ll be able to get multiple licences. Legal, even, compared to the handful of fakes he had in his Pencey era. He spaces on where the spare key is hidden this month and has to resort to ringing the doorbell, mentally apologising to Jamia when he can hear all of the dogs starting to freak out. 

“What are you doing home? Oh. It’s not really you, is it? It’s one of your duplicates.”

Frank sighs and bends to pick up Bella before she can run for her favourite lamp post. “I’m going to be honest and tell you yes it is. But if I had lied you wouldn’t have noticed to be upset about it.”

“I would know.” Frank doesn’t want to start a fight so he doesn’t say anything, but she’s wrong. His selves are identical in mannerisms and appearance. Sometimes, if it’s been long enough, even he forgets if he’s the first or a duplicate until they touch and see which one absorbs the other.

“Bring her in, I’ll make coffee. I know airport coffee is shit.” Jamia’s smile is a bit weak, and Frank knows they’re going to have to talk about what the Texas show means for them. But that can at least wait until after a cup of home brew and a hug. 

*

There’s only a moment between waking up and realising why he’s awake. Brendon’s always been good in the morning, the most coherent of all his siblings, before they left the house to live proper Mormon lives. It worked in his favour once he no longer had Mom or Mason putting a hand on his shoulder to rouse him for school, but an alarm clock, or, on more than one occasion neighbours screaming through the onion skin thin walls. This time it’s neither. Brendon’s awake because that thirteen year old that has glass shattering screams is doing so. Brendon shoves his pillow over his face, trying to muffle the sound before his ear drums burst. It seems unfair that he should have to suffer because some girl had a nightmare.

Except she doesn’t stop screaming, like one would expect after waking up from a bad dream. And then Neuron sends a wave of _OH GOD HELP M-_ before her thought gets cut off, and Brendon knows this isn’t just a dream. Something bad is happening. His bed scrapes across the floor as his forcefield turns on and he lands hard on his pyjama clad ass.

“Morgan! You need to come with me!” But of course he can’t hear him, Brendon can’t even hear himself. Part of him hopes that this damage isn’t permanent, he can’t go on stage if he’s deaf. The rest of him reminds him that he has to actually survive this before he can worry about performing. The only other thing he can do is climb to his feet and charge at Morgan, bed and boy being shoved in the wake towards the door. Finally he gets the message and gets up, though he hovers at the door.

His field is too expansive, it won’t let him through. Brendon clenches his hands into fists and thinks about chewing gum. It’s the only thing that’s really worked in training sessions, the first metaphor that hit him properly. If he can imagine the field is like a cocoon of blown gum around him, he can suck it back in, if he chooses to. It’s not exactly the manly image of being a superhero, but it works. Usually.

Thankfully it’s one of the times that it does. He runs through the door and presses his hand along Morgan’s feathered back as they run.

When they see the first military guy Brendon’s fear springs the feild back into action, diameter of the field far wider this time. It’s enough to tumble Morgan to his feet, and Brendon can’t help him back up, can only apologise. The black clad man turns down a different hallway, and Brendon breathes a sigh of relief as they come up to one of the secret passages that’s going to get them out safely. Morgan hits at the fake wood panelling until it collapses in and he can run in and down the concrete stairs. Brendon’s fucked. There’s no reason to even try to stand here and attempt to coax his field back in. It’s like a bubble of gummy concrete, and it’s not gonna happen. The only option he has is to run for the stairwell, and the front door beyond it.

Those are the most terrifying minutes of his life. Part of training is knowing what they're vulnerable to and what they aren’t. In Brendon's case, he knows other mutants powers and stuff like baseball bats and golf clubs can’t get through, but no one’s ever tested high speed projectiles like bullets or darts. Brendon knows they have tranquilizer darts, not real guns, he sees Annalyn get shot and there’s no blood, just her crumpling. It's not as reassuring as it sounds.

At the front door he passes several men, a few of which have students -friends- they’re carrying out. He feels guilty for being happy about their capture, but it’s the crucial second that it takes the men to jostle the weight to the other side and have a free arm for shooting their tranquilizer gun that lets him get away.

Not that he knows where he’s going. Jubilee says they have regular emergency drills, for stuff like what to do if someone can’t or decides they don’t want to control their power, or what to do if someone that doesn’t know about mutants visits the school, or what happens if they need to evacuate. But in the time Brendon and Spencer and Ryan have been here they haven’t had a drill. Sure Mr Summers got Piotr to show him what direction to run in where a secondary safe house was, but Brendon hardly thinks it’s fair to be expected to remember the lesson. It was his second day and for the first time in his life he was at a school where people didn’t ignore him. He’d been desperately trying to not think about how none of his family met him before Storm’s jet landed outside Spencer’s house, and when it still came into his brain every five minutes, trying to not let it hurt. Not to mention the optimist in him had been a bit jacked up on the inevitability of Panic’s real band status, not having to work every last moment to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach, and getting to have sleep overs with friends every night. Though the last one hasn’t worked out too well. Brent left, and Spencer and Ryan are having capital I Issues that Brendon doesn’t even know how to start helping with, but suspects the hickeys on Ryan’s neck aren’t helping either.

Not having a clue, he just runs. It’s harder in the woods, there aren’t many paths he can take that allow for his field. If he struggled hard enough he could probably break down the trees, but they don’t deserve that, so he just sticks to running down the walking paths, certain that none of them lead anywhere safe. As he gets further and further away and they don’t chase after him it shrinks slightly, but Brendon doubts it’s going to go away for a good long time. Maybe even as long as sunrise.

The moon is still high in the sky when he hears the crunching of leaves and twigs. Before he has much of a chance to panic though, he turns and sees it’s Map Walker and Shutter. They’re best friends, it’s not exactly surprising to see them together. Although Brendon can’t help but wonder how Shutter is navigating the woods, even with Map’s hand on his back. Shutter sees everything in stills, he has to blink his eyes to see a new image. When he’s watching Stargate, apparently the only show he cares enough about to bother, he needs to blink as rapidly as possible to actually catch what’s going on. With so much tree debris on the ground he should be tripping every second step.

Map’s voice sounds friendly when he gets close enough to speak, as close as Brendon’s feild will let him. “I knew you’d be lost. You can’t even find your way from class to class. We’ve been trying to find you for over an hour. Didn’t your parents ever teach you if you get lost, sit where you are and wait for someone to find you?”

Brendon shrugs, though he’s not sure Map Walker can see it in the darkness. “Probably. But some of the people that were finding are military, and I don’t know if my field holds up to tranq darts.” That’s if they’re even tranqing anymore, what if they hit quota and are using real bullets for the rest? Not that he wants to say it out loud, in case Map hasn’t thought of it yet. Besides, bullets might be better than being dragged away to some secret facility, in the long run.  

Shutter rolls his eyes, and Brendon wants to ask if he sees anything different when he does that, but refrains. “Yes, and some are us. Follow us to safe house three.”

“What? Three?”

“Wow, you didn’t pay any attention at all during orientation did you?” Despite the words Map doesn’t sound pissed or like he thinks Brendon’s a dumb ass, both tones Brendon’s pretty used to. “There are eighty kids, probably closer to ninety with you four coming. Think about how big the school is, can you picture an single emergency shelter fitting everyone?”

“I don’t know if I can make it go away enough to get inside a door. I’m kind of really freaked out right now. Should I just stay here? You could refind me when I calm down more?” It’s not really fair to put Map Walker and Shutter in danger like this.

“No,” Map says definitively. “I’m taking you to Spencer. He’s in safehouse two, and I’m sure he wants to see you. It’s bad enough that Ryan’s not here.”

“What do you mean? Where’s Ryan?” Brendon’s stomach churns, and Map Walker and Shutter both stumble back as his field expands and pushes at them.

“He’s on the road right now, heading to Boston.”

Brendon blinks. “Spencer’s not gonna like that.”

“He’s not kidnapped, or with the army guys, at least. He’s with Rogue and Bobby and Pyro.”

Brendon thinks about that for a second, then thinks about the hickeys, then thinks about Spencer. “I don’t think that’ll help much.”

Shutter shrugs, and Map answers for the both of them. “Yeah. Probably not, actually. Not really looking forward to telling him. We have to get there first though, so if you want to take calming breaths, and shrink it a little that’ll be great. It’s not all on a path.”

Brendon shrugs back at them. He’ll do his best. 

*

Patrick’s only somewhat concerned about waking up with an eight am phone call. He’s touring, but he’s not meant anywhere for hours, the nice thing about playing small clubs all over England is there’s no need for a tour bus and sixteen hour drives. Pete promised to not call in the middle of the night because Patrick would be sleeping in, but there’s an equal chance that he just forgot and just watched something great on Youtube rather than he’s upset and not sleeping. Hell, it might not even be Pete. It could be Joe or Travie or anyone else he knows with an erratic schedule leading to one-two-three am calls seeming perfectly acceptable forgetting his current location.

For that matter it could be someone in actual England, trying to get an interview. Unlikely, yes. None of them have released CDs yet, though his EP is out and The Black Cards have some purposely leaked tracks. But it’s possible that someone wants to know what the ex-singer of Fall Out Boy is doing. The thought makes picking up the phone unappealing. But if it’s Pete he might need him, and if it’s another friend he or she will probably just call again and again, his friends are persistent like that.

It’s not a friend, or an interviewer, or a whatever the fuck Pete is. She doesn’t even have to say anything, Patrick recognises the deep breathing. It’s one of the staple sounds of his childhood, his sister being asthmatic. It’s Kat. Kitty, as she likes to be known. It’s a family joke that no one is the same on their passport as they are on their birth certificate. Patrick Vaughn Stump and Kitty Pryde, born to the Stumph family. If he’s remembering correctly there’s a three hour difference between Pete in California and Travie in New York, which means it’s almost three. “Okay sis, isn’t it a bit late? Shouldn’t one of your telepaths be scolding you for being up right now? Not that I don’t want to talk.” Hopefully a short conversation, so he can roll over and go back to sleep.

“Ricky, I’m scared.” Even ignoring the second clause, Patrick would know. It’s in every syllable, and she only calls him Ricky when she needs him firmly set into Older Brother mode. He just got to sleep four hours ago, but he’s going to do this, play the part for her. He has to.

He sits up and turns on the lamp until it’s burning his eyes on the brightest setting, to try and force himself more awake. “What happened, what’s wrong? Can you wake up your roommate? You said her name was Siryn, right?”

“No, no no no I can’t, I cant I-”

Patrick wills her to be calmer. If she starts hyperventilating she’ll need a suck of her inhaler, which she might not be able to take if she’s having trouble controlling her phasing, another side effect of tension. “I thought you said you were friends. I’m sure she’ll understand. I haven’t slept long and I’m not mad you woke me up, right? It’s-”

“Ricky! I’m not at school.”

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t _know_.” She sounds miserable, and Patrick wishes he could be there. “It’s just a payphone. I don’t know where.”

“Why are you at a payphone? Are you drunk?” He doesn’t really want to think of his sister almost assaulted and in the middle of a random street hiding from her ‘date’, but she’s fifteen, well old enough to be going to parties.

“I ran. I just ran and ran from the school, I didn’t look where I was going, I just ran.”

“From what? Did Siryn or someone else try to hurt you because-” he has no idea how he’s going to finish that sentence, so for a moment he’s glad when she interrupts. And then he registers what she says.

“It wasn’t mutants, it was people. Military. Or robots. They had weird bumps on their face and could see in the dark, I couldn’t tell what it was, I’d just woken up. Everyone woke up. We got so lucky, Siryn woke up, she screamed before they shot her. It warned everyone. She’s so loud nobody could have slept through it, not even deaf people. My eardrums nearly burst before I phased out. I don’t know what would have happened if she didn’t, maybe we all would have been shot.”

“Kitty, I need to call someone to come get you.”

“Please don’t hang up.”

“But I-”

“Ricky, please.” He hasn’t heard her like this in a long time. Not since she first showed him she could walk through things, and begged him to not hate her. It had taken her two weeks of avoiding everyone that August to work up the courage, and Patrick still hates the idea that she might think he could ever stop loving her.

“Okay, I’m going to use the hotel phone. You’ll hear me still, I’ll put the cell close.” She doesn’t object, which only impresses on him how serious this is. For the last two weeks of vacation she refused to tell anyone else, wouldn’t even listen to his suggestions. It wasn’t until she started the first day of sixth grade and fell through her desk onto the floor that she decided she needed help. Kitty doesn’t like being reliant on other people.

It takes him a minute to remember Pete’s number. They’re almost always together with no need to call and he’s two on speed dial if they’re not in the same state or country. Eventually he gets it, remembering to dial out, then international, then area code, then Pete. “Pete, I don’t know if you were sleeping but-”

“No, it’s fine, was watching Colbert. What’s going on in London?”

“My sister needs help. You need to call around, find someone that’s in New York to help her out.”

“What the hell? What happened? Doesn’t she have like a whole school of people to help?”

“I don’t know, she said something about an attack.”

“The fuck?”

“I don’t _know_ Pete, just find someone.”

“Where is she?”

“It’s gotta be Westchester.” There’s no way she ran further than that.

“That’s a city, Patrick, you can’t just-”

“I know.” He switches the angle of his head it’s more towards the cell in his left. “Kitty, do you see anything street names or a store that isn’t Walmart. Something distinctive?”

“There’s a pastry shop called Wake and Baked?” Under normal circumstances Patrick would probably laugh. Instead he relays the information to Pete, who tells him it’s going to be okay, he’s got this, he’ll call back when he finds someone. Patrick believes him, he trusts him. Pete wouldn’t let him down, not with something this important.

*

Gabe’s always believed you learn better from doing than studying, that lessons stick much better when you’re mired in them. What he’s currently learning is nothing is more bitter than a fan scorned. Midtown breaking up is apparently almost entirely his fault, and everyone seems quite happy laying out all the reasons why. The forums are full of people hating him, threads upon threads of possible reasons he’s such a tool. There seem to be three reasons that come up far more often than anything else though. Some have accused him of wanting to sell out and go mainstream. Gabe’s not sure how actually making money for performing is any more soul damaging than making money wearing a suit or a respectable skirt and typing files in an office, but the more ‘hardcore’ a fan is, the more offensive the idea seems. Some blame the fact that he’s recently begun to enjoy substances, thread handles full of X’s and quotes from Minor Threat. That’s bullshit too, the rest of Midtown would ditch straight edge in a flat second if they could. As it happens though, they can’t, alcohol and drugs fuck with their abilities too much for it to be safe. Gabe’s just lucky enough to not have that problem. Some even buy the ‘differences in musical opinion’ bullshit PSA the band put out, threads about what he or Rob or Heath or Tyler might have wanted to do differently. That’s garbage too, in reality he might have sometimes craved a keyboard, but it’s not like they would have kicked him out for it.

The real bottom line is he just doesn’t care enough anymore to pretend to be an activist. Emo mutant kids need to cheer the fuck up and realise they’re only alone because they decide they are. He doesn’t feel like making depressing music about how much it sucks to be a mutant anymore. Nor does he hold any interest in answering the occasional interview about what it’s like to be a mutant in the scene. And at some point being invited to play somewhere not because their band kicks ass, but because they’re the only mutcore band in Jersey got really fucking old.

Still, that doesn’t mean he’s not willing to hold up his own if it comes to it. He owes the scene a few favors, and mom taught you pay up when you’re asked to. So when he gets a phone call from Patrick Stump at half past three in the morning asking him to pick up a girl in Westchester, Gabe pulls on a hoodie and starts driving. Not no questions asked, of course, he texts Pete the whole drive. But the point is considering it’s almost four Patrick was lucky he didn’t tell him to fuck off and turn off his cell so he couldn’t be called again.

Pete releases some pretty interesting snippets in 140 character bursts; the girl’s name isn’t Kitty but just call her that anyway, she’s Patrick’s little sister, she needs help because the government raided her school and she doesn’t know if any of her classmates are alive. It all sounds pretty fucked to Gabe. Patrick’s in England, Joe, Andy and the rest of that band are in Minnesota or somewhere thereabouts, and Pete’s in California, but even though they know other people in New York he’s their first non Fall Out Boy choice. Seemingly when it comes to mutant rescue he’s the safest bet.

It’s easy enough to find her, map app on his iPhone showing him every turn he needs to make. It’s just as easy to spot her, there aren’t a lot of teenage girls in nightgowns hanging out in the middle of the sidewalk, beside a payphone. What might be more difficult is getting her to actually come with him. He slows his car into an idle beside her, and before he can even open his mouth she shouts “I am not a hooker!” and slinks back against the bakery.

“I’m really not looking for one.” And even if he was, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a girl that looks thirteen, that’s fucking disgusting. “I’m Gabe. Your brother sent me.” She’s pressed hard against the wall, and Gabe has no doubt that if he doesn’t pull this off she’ll sink into it and disappear. And then Pete and Patrick will kick his ass, and he’ll probably sort of deserve it because who loses someone’s little sister?

“Before I ran out of quarters he said he was sending mutcore Gabe Saporta. You don’t look like a rockstar.”

“Well, that was sort of the gimmick, wasn’t it?” It worked damn well, for a long time.

It’s on every forum, on Wikipedia, and if he goes with this superband thing Pete’s proposing it’ll probably attract Livejournal attention too. As a child Gabe had a bad nervous habit of chewing on hair, worse than nails or even self harming because eating hair would eventually lead to a trichobezoar and stomach surgery. It got to the point where friends and family watched him so he wouldn’t pluck it out of his skull. And then twenty minutes before his first June exam in sophomore year, Matty refusing to let him pluck, stress driving him out of his mind, Gabe pinched a hair off Matty’s hoodie and popped it in his mouth before Matty could protest, strand sharp and long against his tongue. And when he swallowed it, Matty stared and Jessica screamed and the guidance counsellor had to come and escort him away, because he had _turned into_ Matty. He’d been stuck that way three days, until he finally got the bright idea to peel a hair out of his brush. Eating his own had turned him back into himself.

When he finally got into a band with a teleporter, a guy with feet that would let him walk on any surface including fire and up walls, and a regenerator, it became a thing. Every night he sung as a different person, sometimes several people, depending on how often he could crowd surf and pluck another hair. Sometimes the voice sounded like shit, but that hardly mattered, it wasn’t the point.

“Look, if you don’t trust that Patrick sent me 'cause Pete told him I was a good bet, they’re both in my phone. You can call them. You know Pete, right? I mean he is your brother’s... something. I’m sure he’s been around the house.”

The girl nods her her head and slinks out of the wall. She stares at her hand for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration before being able to grab the door handle. It’s another frown before she can sit on the seat. Gabe figures that has to suck, concentrating so you don’t fall apart. He’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do now, but if it’s almost dawn, judging by all the late nights he’s had, she either wants food, mellow music, a shower, or bed. Possibly a combination of the lot. He starts the drive back to his house, taking a moment to text both Pete and Patrick that Kitty’s safe. Patrick will no doubt call him back so he can talk to her. Unless he’s already doing a show, Gabe’s never been real up to date on time zones.

*

After they all pile into one of Cyclops’ cars, Wolverine floors it. Somehow they get off the property without someone taking out the windshield or the tires. He cranks the heat to compensate for the chill that Bobby’s giving off, not helped by everyone wearing night clothes, but there’s nothing else he can do. They can’t exactly stop in a Westchester Walmart for clothes, there’s not a single wallet between the five of them, and Scott has no emergency stash of cash in the glove box. Which fantastically also means that he doesn’t have a licence, so as soon as he gets out of Westchester he needs to slow down so he doesn’t get pulled over. For now though, speed is better than stealth. He heard the soldiers talking, they weren’t expecting the secret passages, they thought they were going to collect everyone easily. It’s impossible to know how many units have been dispatched, waiting for escaped teenagers. Nothing is more important than getting out before there’s someone to cut them off.

Wolverine considers himself lucky that there aren’t barricades around the county. It’s about the only thing he’s been lucky with in the last month. Between finding no answers at Alkali, and not being able to continue with Stryker, and his passengers being entirely incompatible he suddenly feels very drained. Not that it matters, the drive from Westchester to Boston is eight hours, and he’s not about to let anyone else have a turn at the wheel.

If there’s one thing Wolverine is certain of, it’s that this is not a good combination of people to have together. Sure, the school is for all intents and purposes a hormone stew, only the youngest of students avoiding the dramatic workings. But this combination is worse than average. Thanks to their conversation in the kitchen Wolverine knows Bobby and Rogue are in a celibate but fraught with emotion relationship. He also knows that it’s difficult for Bobby, because his best friend dislikes Rogue, and the feeling is entirely mutual. It also seems to have been passed onto the glowing kid that’s curled into Pyro. It only takes a minute of glancing into the rear view mirror to see there’s something between the two brunets, the average teenage male doesn’t cuddle. Ryan doesn’t seem to have a lot of patience for Bobby either, if the sneer every time he says something means anything. Pyro, on the other hand, is obviously bubbling over with suppressed lust. Every time his legs relax open enough that his thigh touches Bobby he jerks away violently. If Logan had a choice he’d be states away -preferably in a bunker- so this mass of tangled emotions doesn’t hit him when it explodes. He doesn’t really have that option now though.

Ryan keeps leaning into the front seat to change the radio, at least once every ten minutes. Each time he does Rogue flinches. Wolverine would blame the swaying that forces her to dodge on a lack of coordination due to being a skinny tall teenager, except each time Ryan does it he can see Pyro smirking in the rear view mirror. It’s almost bullying, but Logan isn’t about to intervene on her account. Everyone needs to know how to fight back. All she has to do is flinch forward, not back, and Ryan will be wincing in pain and know better than to tease. He also grants Ryan the honour of not cutting off his hand every time he arches over the cup holders before falling back against Pyro. The restraint is for a variety of reasons; Xavier would not be happy if he brought someone home with an amputated limb, his taste in music isn’t abysmal, he’s only switching at the end of songs, not in the middle, Ryan’s a scared kid musician and the music looks like it’s helping the same way Pyro’s flicking his Zippo is helping him. Most importantly, they’ve been driving five hours and Wolverine’s irritation is the only thing keeping him awake.

It’s light by the time he parks in front of Bobby’s house, 10:07 if Scott’s dash is to be believed. He’s been up forty five hours now, having driven through the night in order to get to the school faster. Between the exhaustion, cramped hands and legs that a ten minute break at a gas station couldn’t fix, nervousness about what the fuck happened at the school, and the constant backseat sniping for the last seven hours he’s really not in a good mood.

Getting to the Drakes’ should make things easier. It doesn’t. Ryan comments about it being a imbecilic place to hide a spare key, Rogue glares at her boyfriend's family being slagged, and Logan just holds himself back from smashing his head against the door frame. He sprawls over the couch as Bobby shows Pyro and Ryan his bedroom so they can pick out a change of clothes, before leading Rogue to his parents bedroom for the same. There’s a difference between being invulnerable and not feeling pain, and what his aching legs really need is the chance to be stretched, knees unbent.

It’s depressing but hardly surprising that his streak of shitty luck continues. From the couch he has the pleasure of getting the scent of hormones flooding the room. Rogue and Bobby are doing whatever they can do, he doesn’t feel comfortable thinking out the mechanics. Pyro and Ryan have the ability to go way beyond what Rogue and Bobby can, and most unfortunately they are using that ability. Wolverine scrambles into the kitchen, hoping the slight gain in distance will place a blanket over his all too knowing senses.

It doesn’t really work. The next sentence spoken is Pyro exclaiming when he finds Bobby’s jerking off lotion, commenting that it’s in the same place he always put it when they shared a room. He can almost hear the smirks.

He needs a drink. Well, no, what he _really_ needs is to get out of here, beyond where he can sense their stupid teenage pheromones. But Wolverine can’t leave. Even if his own morality would let him, if others found out he abandoned everyone life would suck considerably. Xavier would make him think he was a little girl, and Jean and Storm could both kick his ass. So a drink to dull the pain will have to do. Thankfully there’s a healthy amount of beer in the Drake fridge.

Of course, that’s when things go from bad to worse. Because it’s not bad enough to be stuck in a house with four who he can only hope aren’t minors having sex, the universe has to throw more crap at him. He hears the sound of them approaching the door, but not nearly early enough to get the bodies disengaged and out the front door. Instead the door slams open and the conversation between Mrs Drake and Bobby’s brother trails off as they notice him. The teenage boy gapes at him, and her arm curls around him like she thinks that could really protect him if he was a burglar. Wolverine’s trying to think of something non-threatening to say when Bobby comes charging down the stairs, Rogue hesitating in the middle of the flight. The Drakes don’t seem happy to see their son home in the middle of the semester, but at least it’s no longer his problem. Bobby will know how to handle them better than he possibly could.

There’s a sharp burst of smells Wolverine twitches through, leaning against the door frame of the living room as Bobby awkwardly comes out to his parents, Rogue’s gloved hand on his knee. Ryan and Pyro come down a minute later, hair mussed, lips bruised pink. Pyro levers himself onto a tall side table, Ryan standing beside him, a move which makes Mrs Drake wince. She probably doesn’t want the crocheted doily under Pyro’s ass wrinkled.

The atmosphere of the room only gets more tense with the new arrivals. Not just because it’s obvious what they’ve been up to, and the Drakes are officially multiple kind of phobic, though that’s a great contributor. The real problem is neither of the brunets have much in the way of guest manners. Pyro is flicking his lighter non-stop, probably akin to anyone else smoothing out invisible wrinkles or curling strands of hair around their finger. At least he acquiesces when Mrs Drake snaps at him to stop. Ryan won’t stop glaring at Mr Drake, and when Pyro points out that fathers carry the gene so it’s actually his fault and the man winces the look only intensifies.

When the brother storms off Logan knows it can’t get any worse. Bobby’s not going to be winning them over. Now it’s just a matter of how they can get out with the least amount of damage.

*

They’re just barely in Seattle - maybe five minutes past the giant Welcome To sign that no one bothers to take a blurry out of the window photo of, having been in the city half a dozen times before- when Mikey finds out a school for runaway teenage mutants was raided by the military. It’s not from television, though as soon as he finds out he shouts out to the guys and CNN gets booted up on four laptops almost simultaneously. It’s obvious either Frank or Gerard is going to have to deal with this during the next interview, they’ll need to be as informed as possible. Although from what he can see looking over at Frank’s screen, CNN is sort of full of shit. It makes him wonder how bad Fox News is right now.

He knows the truth of it because Pete has texted him, and Patrick’s sister attends the school. There’s nothing on the news about shooting ten year olds with dart guns, or some of them being kidnapped for experimentation. It’s fucking nauseating for a dozen different reasons, starting with how friends of friends have been adversely affected by this. Mikey can only hope that Patrick’s sister is okay, he doesn’t even know her name to attempt to Google details. Viewed as a bigger picture it’s even worse. As long as he can remember there’s always been distrust between mutants and flatscans, but it seems to have gotten worse lately. Mikey can’t remember protests as a child, but it seems every week there’s something new on the news. In twenty years Frank and Jamia’s kids might be in this position, mutant genes passed on. If flatscans keep hurting mutants like this, maybe two decades from now Vixen and Bela won’t trust him, even the bond of being their godfather not enough to bridge the gap.

It’s upsetting to think about what’s happening in Westchester, but Pete’s method of communicating upsets him even more. Pete’s been sending him a series of texts, phrases devoid of emotion. He should be furious, he should be ranting on the phone loud enough that the driver can hear it. Mikey has to wonder how many hours Pete’s been awake, and if this situation is going to start a bad cycle for him.

Mikey hasn’t been with Pete in a long time. He still isn’t quite sure if Pete and Patrick were in an off again phase, or if they’d fucked occasionally while he and Pete were dating, and he doesn’t really care. It had worked for them, an entire tour’s worth of late nights and burnt microwave popcorn, wearing shirts at all times so hickeys wouldn’t show. And evidently it had worked for the complexity that was Pete and Patrick. That’s all that matters. In his long time of dating he’s found relationships are hardly ever monogamous, or simple. At least in his experience. He doesn’t need to be shaking with the anticipation of Pete fucking him hard to care about him though. Pete told him for a reason, just as much because he’s the bassist of My Chemical Romance as because he’s a friend. If he doesn’t do something it’ll hurt Pete, and that’s the last thing he wants.

Luckily he’s got the perfect thing in mind. Let Gerard handle the on stage speeches, sassy and demanding the same from their audience. Let Frank and Gee do the interviews while he and Bob fade into the background and Ray tosses in the occasional comment. Mikey’s way is more subtle, but hopefully it’ll attract attention outside the small sphere of fans that obsessively search for recordings of their concerts on Youtube. Back when he and Pete were together he was invited to join a few secret Fall Out Boy concerts. Only one of them was truly secret, it was at a mutant school. A stipulation of playing was consenting to arriving blindfolded, which Mikey had almost said no to, until Pete promised a blowjob to make up for the lost sense. Unless Patrick has connections to more than one -Mikey doesn’t know how many there are around the world, but the United States should at least have one on each coast- it has to have been the one on the news now. Mikey’s got a dozen good memories from the concert, along with a hundred photos that never made their way online.

Until now. He searches through his box of his USBs until he finds the one with the right year and season label, and plugs it into his laptop. Pulling up the school concert folder Mikey searches for a visible power, someone that will make his point. When he finds Artie he smiles grimly. It only takes a second in MS Paint to crop the photo and convert to jpeg.

That done, the only thing left is to ask Ray for his Twitter password. Ray knows all this secret codes, he’s much better at that stuff than Mikey. In fact, he knows the various passwords for everyone on the bus, all of them are pretty shitty at remembering things like that. Mikey doesn’t use Twitter often. Besides the logging in issue, there’s that it has the limitations of texting, while denying privacy. But that’s the point now.

@GabrielSaporta gov shot up school of mutant kids. Nothing scarier than [this](http://s181.photobucket.com/albums/x270/gala_apples/bandom/?action=view&current=1000454.jpg), right?

If all goes well, Gabe will reply, and other people will retweet it. The more people that see it, the better. Another Iran style protest movement would be great.

It’s hardly surprising that Frank shouts from the front of the bus about an hour later “nicely done, Mikeyway.” Frank and Ray are the only ones that really use theirs for much, and Frank’s the only one that logs on every day. Mikey just shrugs and texts Adam back. It’s not like he wasn’t going to do anything.

It’s also not surprising that Frank won’t take Mikey’s silence as an answer, and comes to the bunks to peer at him. “I mean it, that’s pretty great. People will know now that it’s not just Gee running roughshod over you. You’re not exactly vocal in interviews, but that says more than enough.”

Mikey shrugs again. That was sort of the point.

“You’re kind of great in general, and I’d like to make out with you now.”

There’s a hopeful look plastered over Frank’s face. Mikey doesn’t bother to ask about Jamia, he knows she and Frank have an understanding. He can’t see Gerard being upset by it either, Gerard’s not the jealous lover type. With no reason not to, he grabs Frank’s wrist and pulls him down for a kiss.

The moment is broken the way almost all moments on tour are; someone else butting in. Frank calls from the front, “you gonna have sex with my boyfriend’s brother?”

“The panties have fallen but he’s not in bed yet.” Frank pauses a moment then adds, “Metaphorically speaking.”

“Good! I really didn’t want to hear about his panties.” That’s Gerard, and Mikey snorts. Like Gee has any room to talk about crossdressing.

When Frank slips into his bunk Mikey finds himself appreciating the fact that whatever allows Frank to duplicate himself doesn’t let him duplicate any objects. It’s difficult to strip in a bunk, but this Frank comes pre-naked. Frank for his part doesn’t seem too concerned with getting Mikey naked, content to just press the heel of his hand over the bulky zipper. Fucking tease. Well, two can play that game. He bypasses Frank’s dick to cup his balls. He’s not getting Frank off until Frank gets him off, or at least starts to try. If it takes until they get to the venue so be it, figuring out how their relationship is gonna work is worth a bit of delayed gratification.

*

Kurt begins to recite a prayer as Storm informs them the Air Force planes are going to fire at them. He continues as they both fire their first and Storm rolls the jet to evade them, as Wolverine demands weapons, as Storm creates tornadoes that take the first plane out. The second pilot is luckier, he manages to fire two more missiles before ejecting from his plane. Jean Grey takes one out with considerable mental exertion, but the other smashes into the jet. Kurt has made his peace with God, if this is the day he’s to die than so be it.

That’s when Rogue is hurtled out the edge that’s ripped open like a can opener. Kurt is sure that she is not ready for that journey, and so the only thing to do is to pop out into the open sky and grab her. The jet is still plummeting, but a man in a purple helmet catches it and sets them down gently. Kurt does not understand, but far be it for him to question the workings of the world.

As the sun begins to set Kurt finds himself wishing for the Munich circus. There his companions were far less needful. They had all found within themselves a sort of peace. Such a thing was important when constantly on tour, travelling had a way of breaking down those not strong enough. There is only one person on this expedition that seems truly centred. Even then it’s not a true calm. Mystique is full of plans on how the future must be and how the world must change. Kurt fears she is only so accepting of herself because she hates everything else.

From the day he has had to observe he feels sure almost everyone’s problem is that they are looking for love rather than having faith that it will be provided. Wolverine clearly wants Jean Grey, and she wants him while she believes she shouldn’t. Bobby chases after something he can never allow himself to catch, in order to ignore the far more real love standing beside him. And thirty feet away John -Pyro as he wishes to be called- and Ryan are having intercourse as though to drive away the loneliness. It’s all so clear to him, like the angelic symbols.

Clearly frustrated by the noises escaping the tent, Rogue stalks away from the fire Pyro created earlier. She shows her gratitude for saving her, and then asks if he can hear what the other adults are saying. He agrees. It would be pertinent to know what’s going on. It’s hardly more than a thought before he’s high above the cluster of people, claws embedded in the bark of the tree.

Storm is the first person to speak after his silent interruption. “But how would Stryker know what Cerebro is, or how to find it?”

Magneto reaches up to touch the back of his neck, seeming upset. “Because I told him. I helped Charles build it, remember? Mr. Stryker has powerful methods of persuasion. Even against a mutant as strong as Charles.”

“Who is Stryker anyway?” Jean asks, which Kurt thinks is a very good question. He must be a monster to have set something like this in motion.

“He’s a military scientist who has spent his life looking for a solution to the mutant problem. But if you want a more intimate perspective, why don’t you ask the Wolverine?” Magneto turns to Logan for a moment before saying, “you don’t remember?” Logan crosses his arms, and Kurt can imagine he is not happy. “William Stryker is the only other man I know who can manipulate adamantium. The metal on your bones? It carries his signature.”

“But the Professor...”

“The Professor trusted you were smart enough to discover this on your own. He gives you more credit than I do.”

Wisely, Storm decides to interject with a question before Wolverine can kill the old man. Though Kurt supposes it wouldn’t be as easy as one would guess looking at them, if Wolverine’s bones really are covered in metal and Magneto can control all metals. “Why do you need us?”

“Mystique discovered plans for a base that Stryker’s been operating out of for decades. But we don’t know where it is. And I believe one of you might.”

Wolverine snaps, “the Professor already tried.”

Magneto sighs, “Once again, you think it’s all about you.”

That’s when Magneto turns his gaze upward, the rest copying the movement moments later. Kurt is caught, redhanded.

He pops to the ground and sinks until he’s sitting, across from Jean. Everyone is crowded around him, and while he’s used to crowds staring at the Incredible Nightcrawler, this feels much different. His nerves must be showing, entirely unprofessionally, Storm puts a hand on his shoulder in attempt to reassure him. “I, I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“Relax,” Jean commands, but he does not see how that can be. He flinches as she puts her fingers on his temples. Blurry flashes rush through his mind - soldiers holding him on the ground - being held in the back of a truck - entering along, dark tunnel from above ground - a massive lab - the flash of a camera. Everything he sees makes his head hurt, and makes him feel angry that he can’t remember more because of what they did to him.

“Stryker’s at Alkali Lake,” she says with some confidence. Kurt does not understand how she can be so sure, he didn’t get anything so complete from the memory flash.

Wolverine too doesn’t seem to trust her certainty. “That’s where the Professor sent me. Nothing’s left.”

“There’s nothing left on the surface, Logan. The base is underground.”

After that they continue to talk, barely noticing when he slips off to the tents Bobby had set up earlier. He is tired, and his mind hurts, and since he doesn’t imbibe chemicals, and the jet would be unlikely to have anything anyway the only way he has to sooth his taxed brain is to sleep. He doesn’t envy Jean Grey, who must stay up until the jet is fixed if they’re to pull this off correctly tomorrow. He does not trust the restlessness in Magneto’s soul, but children do not deserve to be imprisoned, and God is giving him the chance to save them.

The next morning they discuss strategy. Mystique is going to break into the base in the guise of Wolverine. Once they all get in safely, they will search for their lost compatriots, the children, and the way to stop Stryker. At least, that is what the adults will be doing. Storm has instructed that the four teenagers stay on the jet and wait for them to come back. None seem happy for the chance to stay safe. If asked Kurt would say he believes they are capable of helping, but he is not their teacher, and the only one that doesn’t previously know anyone else. As an outsider he is not asked.

*

The situation sucks. It’s not that Ryan wants to be inside the dam, because he doesn’t. He’s come to trust Storm as much as one can trust an authority figure, and if she thinks that he’s better off here Ryan believes her. Hell, even just plain common sense tells him he’s better out here. The dam has military personnel, probably every man that Wolverine didn’t kill with his claws for daring to raid the school. Probably more, Stryker’s had a little less than thirty-six hours to gather all the military presence in North America. It’s really shitty odds, and Ryan feels far more comfortable with sure things.

The problem with not going in with the adults is that it leaves the four of them alone on the jet. On paper it doesn’t seem like an issue, undoubtedly it didn’t even occur to the adults they might need supervision. In reality it’s not good. It’s quite possibly the most uncomfortable enclosed area Ryan’s ever been in, and that includes the time the Smiths invited him and Dad for a dinner party. Forget the actual dimensions of the jet, and it’s seatbelts for twenty, with just them the walls seem to be closing in. It feels like he’s in Rogue’s lap and since she’s a power stealer that’s not a good thing.

“They’re taking too long,” John announces. He’s clicking his Zippo manically, and Ryan can only hope the hinge doesn’t break, or that he doesn’t run out of lighter fluid. It has to be close to empty, he’s been playing with it for the last day without filling it. But if John doesn’t have that outlet, things will get a lot worse.

Bobby and Rogue don’t acknowledge him, and Ryan doesn’t know what to say. Even before he started drinking his father was never on time to a thing in his life. After his parents fucked him over Brendon had no choice but to rely on buses, so he was either on time or fifty minutes late. Ryan doesn’t pay much attention to time if he can help it, ignoring things that are out of his control is the best system he has.

“I’m so done with this kid’s table shit.” He emphasises the statement by hitting the button that makes the stairs descend.

“They told us to stay here!”

“Do you always do what you’re told?” It’s obvious he’s not asking Rogue. But Bobby’s not saying anything.

Ryan doesn’t particularly want to go get himself killed. Situations leading to death have already happened once yesterday -twice if you count the cops pulling guns on them- and once the night before. It’s enough for a life time, really. But he sees the way John’s breaking because of this. There was never anything to hold Ryan in Summerlin, and what little is holding John is slipping way each moment no one agrees with him. So Ryan stands and follows him out of the jet.

Outside is an expanse of snow and trees and concrete dam. Ryan looks down at Bobby’s size too small shoes on his feet because John doesn’t look like he wants to be looked at. Ryan doubts it will help, but he says it anyway. “I don’t think he would have come even if she wasn’t here.”

Ryan can understand hating your crush’s girlfriend, god knows he doesn’t like Boom Boom at all. But the truth is Bobby is a coward and it wouldn’t have mattered if the jet was him and John and a stockpile of guns, he still wouldn’t have mounted a rescue. Spencer, on the other hand, Ryan has no problem imagining him barging into the dam like he owned it.

“Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s just us.”

What he needs to do is buy himself some time. If they go in, they will most likely die. Ryan’s power is useless for combat. The best he can do is blind people and run past them, but they’ll figure out a way around that quickly. Hell, a pair of sunglasses would probably do. John’s ability is far more aggressive, yesterday’s scene at the Drakes proved it if he hadn’t known earlier, but it’ll only last as long as his lighter fluid does. And once they get in, what are they supposed to do? Surely the adults have split up all over the complex already. What if they come out with snipers on their tails, needing to leave immediately, and he and John are still inside the dam?

In the wilderness there’s not a lot to distract a person with. It’s not like he can say ‘wanna play xBox’ and get John drawn into five hours of Super Smash Bros. But he’s got his ass and his cock and his hands and his mouth, and those are attributes that have gotten him through other situations. So when John takes the first few steps towards the dam, Ryan grabs his wrist and pulls him in.

He’s got his tongue in John’s mouth when the sound goes off. It’s like sticking your head between two gongs and smashing down the mallet, everything vibrating around you, except in soprano. It’s so loud and shrill and all encompassing Ryan thinks he’s going to die. He falls to the ground, not noticing the snow biting at him. It’s trivial compared to the sound boreing it’s way into his brain. It needs to end, or he needs to pass out, or die, he doesn’t care what comes first as long as it stops. He would bash his head against a rock to make it stop, but the pain has completely taken over his nervous system, he can’t move at all, not counting the reflex action that makes him curl into a ball.

It stops, after an endless period. Realistically it can’t have been very long, the sun is still in the same position in the sky. But it’s long enough that he’s certain in his knowledge that nothing will ever hurt him more, he’s found his pain threshold. And it’s long enough to make him hate whoever did this, whoever made him this weak.

“Your nose is bleeding,” John tells him. Ryan grimaces. He hates bleeding noses, they’re so grimy. When Ryan doesn’t do anything to staunch the flow John presses the sleeve of his jacket to Ryan’s face. It’s cold and damp from the snow, but it’s probably better than nothing.

The last few minutes have clarified things for Ryan. Spencer was always supposed to be there for him, no matter what. He wasn’t. If they’d still been rooming together they would have escaped together, like he and John did. but Spencer picked a girl over him, and maybe he held her through the shrieking nightmare, like he’s sure Bobby and Rogue did. That he still wants him, still loves him even, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to need him. Ryan can move beyond that, let go of his own attachments the way John did.

In the distance is a helicopter, Magneto and Mystique looking out the window. Earlier Magneto became John’s Pete Wentz; a wiser, more experienced man able to say everything you’re feeling without becoming patronising, a possible way out from a shitty life to one where you get what you deserve. Ryan got his chance, now it's time for Pyro to get his.

They don’t say anything as they climb on, at least nothing of importance, really. Just _welcome Pyro_ , and _what’s your name?_ , just filler. Still, he answers. “Ryan.”

“What’s your real name?”

Ryan knows he means mutant code. “Luminescent. Lume.” The long form is relevant and he likes the sound of it, and the short form is practical and sounds foreboding.

“It’s good to have you, Lume.” On a scale Magneto doesn’t sound nearly as congenial as Mrs Smith, but that’s not an option any longer. Ryan nods his head at the statement, then finds a handle to hold on to. When the helicopter lifts into the air he’ll need it.

*

“So, what time did you get your headache?”

Alex scowls at the question, slams the door of his locker and hooks the U of the lock in a bit harder than necessary. Then he remembers that his math textbook is still inside, and has to realign the dial to the proper numbers to get it open again.

“What,” Cash demands.

“You know how stupid that is, right? It’s like a fucking forwarded email. One jerkoff decided to fall to the floor in a position that let him look at his alarm clock, and now everyone has to say eleven am because everyone else is saying it. Might as well ask if I’m blue.”

Cash looks at him a second then grins. “While I approve your reference, you realise no one had to ask, they just were whatever shade they were. So it doesn’t actually work at all.”

Alex blinks a few times, not sure how to reply. He didn’t really expect Cash to catch the reference. Somehow it’s easy to forget that Cash always has a battered book in his backpack, that his tips from Pizza Hut always go towards paying library fines because he checks out too many at once and forgets to return them until a week after they’re due. 

The thing is, he didn’t fall to the ground at eleven. His attack was at ten to eleven. He just happened to be lucky enough that he was alone in his room, so no one witnessed it.

It’s not like it came as a huge surprise to him. He’s not like his neighbour Sheila, who spent the whole of Sunday trying to figure out what she can do, and as of leaving for school this morning still doesn’t know what her power is, just knows she has to have something. But it will be a surprise to everyone else if he ever comes out. Super speed is something he can almost always manage, it came on four years ago during Christmas break and he had three weeks to train himself into slowness. If he’s still a tad quicker than average it’s easy to blame the witness and say their perception is off because they’re stoned. It’s good to have friends that strive to be fucked up whenever possible.

“Well, whatever,” he finally replies. Not that Cash is listening anymore anyway, he’s too busy trying to spy on other people’s conversations. Which is stupid, because if he just walked straight up to them and asked what they’d heard, Alex is sure they’d tell him. Everyone’s Twitters and Facebooks were going non-stop, until the sites crashed, and then there was no choice but to move onto messenger services and emails.

Walking to AP math is different than it was Friday. For one, the gossipers are crossing social group boundaries to get their information disseminated. It’s the first time he’s ever seen a girl from robotics club talk to one of the cheerleaders, Alex would say that the apocalypse was nigh if they didn’t already have it yesterday. For another, the noticeable mutants aren’t just in their own cluster, with the few outliers that can boldface their way into flatscan groups. Today they’re far more scattered, each with their own handful of people around them, asking questions. Most annoyingly though, there are a bunch of art and drama kids with 10:50 written on duct tape plastered across their shirts. Alex highly doubts the population of mutants can be that dense at Liberty. From what he’s been taught in health class mutant is like gay, about one in ten. Either some are wearing it in support, or they’re flat out lying. Mutant support has shot up dramatically since the singer of My Chem outed himself, giving a shit ton of people another reason to feel misunderstood.

Cash is clearly high on information when he shoves his way between Johnson and Paul at lunch. Alex sighs and prepares to hear everything about everyone in the school, whether he likes it or not. “Did you hear all three of the Cadman triplets latent gene got triggered by the attack yesterday? Apparently all showy shit too, Darrell is bright blue and can stretch, Devon is white with spikes that come out of his spine, and Dominic is red and furry but no one knows what he does yet. Can you imagine what they look like beside each other? It’s gotta be like a fourth of July float.”

“Sarah Weathers got kicked out of the house,” Marshall offers. “She slept in the hospital waiting room last night because she didn’t know where else to go.”

“Austin’s best friend is dating my brother, right? She was over last night, and she told me that Austin’s family were total assholes too, when he started touching things and they’d turn inside out his father pulled a gun on him. And then this woman that was made of diamonds-”

“Lemme guess, the Old Spice Guy touched her?”

“Shut up, fucker. This woman showed up and dared him to shoot her, and then she took Austin away to some refuge for mutants.”

“The one that was all over Twitter?”

“Dunno.”

Alex sighs and takes money and orders for caf food. Every day all his friends bring bag lunches, and every day at least three of them want something hot, or a can drink. He’s not usually the bitch, it rotates by who’s feeling the least lazy. Today he just wants to not listen to people talking about mutants. It would be really awesome if everyone could just shut the fuck up about it. But that’s not going to happen any time soon. Thanks to the attack yesterday the Friends of Humanity and the Omegas are both up in arms blaming the other half of society, and every news or talk show channel is 24/7 mutants. He’s not looking forward to Sociology last period.

Only a few minutes pass between him dumping five recycled cardboard cartons of fries along with a handful of packets of salt and ketchup in the middle of the table and Cash’s cell vibrating across the cafeteria table. He presses the touch screen with his pinky finger so he doesn’t smear it with salty grease, and bends forward slightly to read it. “Shit. Did you hear? Jeremy Reid died. He had a brain clot or something, and it exploded in the attack. The second one, he was a human. I guess since everyone else was on the floor with him, there was no one to call 911 until it was too late.”

“No one could have helped him if it was an aneurysm anyway, don’t you pay any attention in biology?”

Compared to being sent away and homelessness and death Alex feels kind of stupid for hiding his ability. He can say with at least ninety-seven percent certainty that his band won’t give a crap. At the very least, Cash will do something dramatic if anyone is a jerk, and do something worse if anyone’s a bigot. It’s not entirely unfeasible that he would drive into someone with his shitty used car, if he felt irritated enough. Cash has very limited morals. Still, he doesn’t feel like being one of the crowd. Everyone in the world came out yesterday or today, and that’s not going to be him.

*

There’s no television in safehouse three. Spencer guesses that it’s pretty stupid to think there would be. Underground bunkers, even ones large enough to hold thirty people, are supposed to be full of emergency things. Catching a repeat of American Idol is hardly a necessity. But there is a radio. Spencer doesn’t spend much time sitting near it, trying to flip around the channels and figure out if it’s safe yet. It’s sort of bad enough to be stuck underground, listening to piece after piece of bad news giving them less and less reason to go back up the locked and barricaded flight of stairs only makes it worse. The last they heard of the school was the military guarding a mutant terrorist cell location. Then yesterday Professor Xavier was giving a lecture on the news. So he, at least, is free.

The others aren’t dead. They’re alive, and they’re in Washington. That’s all Map Walker can tell them, his power only extends to location, not mood. Still, he’s calm when people pester him again and again and even when Candy started screaming at him Tom just pulled her away, hands sticky from her skin afterward. He spent almost an hour licking them clean, not wanting to waste his ration of water. Since nobody knows how long they’ll be here, they need to ration all the supplies. Once they run out someone will need to run to safehouse two to get more from Spring, and fuck knows how safe the woods are now, three days after the military has invaded.

“They’re close,” Map suddenly calls out. He’s not very loud, but he’s the only one that knows anything, everyone has taken to shutting the fuck up when he talks.

“How close.”

“They’re closer now than they were the first time I said it. They have to be in the jet, it’s the only way.”

There’s a fervor in the room now. Brendon puts down the spoons he’s been playing and leaps to his feet, everyone else feeling the same. Then Shutter breaks the mood. “We shouldn’t be mob mentality right now. Each of you need to decide individually whether to stay here or go back to the school. It could be a trap. There could be a guy with a gun to Storm’s head right now. Map can’t sense they’re there if he doesn’t know who to ask for. This is no different than Friday night, not really.” 

The idea of a trap sounds insane, as does the possibility of someone putting a gun to Storm’s head and living. But a week ago the military breaking into the school would have been some newbie’s nightmare. Shutter’s right. Going back to the school to investigate now isn’t any safer that it would have been an hour ago without news of the teachers.

In the end though, it doesn’t matter. For the most part curiosity and recklessness and yearning to get back to normal wins over safety and almost all of safehouse three goes, though they don’t stop to tell safehouse one or two. If they all get shot or captured, at least there’s two more groups still waiting it out. Map Walker and Shutter are up in front leading the way back. Spencer’s not entirely sure why they’re trusting someone that can only see in stills to watch out for military and keep track of where the fuck they are, but he is too tired-polite-scared- _something_ to bring it up. For his part, Spencer is trailing at the end, as close to Brendon as he can get. His force field triggered back on the second they were standing on soil instead of carpet covered concrete. He tried to use it as an obvious sign that Brendon wasn’t ready to go back, but he insisted and Spencer can’t really blame him. It’s been eighty four hours since they last saw Ryan, ninety if you count from the last time they spoke instead of from when the military broke in. Brendon needs Ryan as much as he does.

When Storm’s plane lands, Spencer is waiting. He’s leaking too much, his long fleece sleeves are sopping with soap, but he’s not particularly special in that regard. Half the students clustered around the edge of the basketball court are losing control in one way or another. This is it. The stairs are descending and either things can begin to get back to normal, or the teachers are being held hostage and they’re all completely fucked.

The first person off the flight is a blue skinned mutant Spencer’s never seen before. It’s not that he knows every student in the school, he doesn’t. But he at least knows the names of the ones with visible mutations, the first day he was compulsively asking them how they dealt with being furry or horned or bright yellow. Fuck Kermit, it’s not easy being pink. This is a new mutant, and Spencer guesses he shouldn’t be surprised. If they all escaped from Guantanamo Bay -except he’s pretty sure that’s in Cuba- the teachers hardly would have stopped at only rescuing their own.

A bunch of students pile off after that, and then Cyclops, who’s clinging to Wolverine, which from what he’s heard is surprising. Soon the teachers are moving through their group, asking if that’s all of them, Storm and Xavier saying they’re proud of their self-reliance. It’s almost like normal, the same teens are preening under the praise of teachers, others ignoring them and acting too cool for kind words. Except it’s not normal, because Jean Grey should be praising too, but she’s missing, and just as Spencer starts to explain it away with finishing up the mission somewhere else Neuron falls to her knees crying. _Nooo_ rings in everyone’s head, and Spencer knows something very bad happened.

Then people stop walking off the jet and Spencer is confused because Ryan isn’t with them. He shoves through the crowd, leaving soapy trails on people, so he can run up the steps. There’s no one else in the jet, Ryan’s not sitting in one of the chairs struggling with his seat belt. Spencer's mind starts to race. There has to be a good reason, there _has to_ be something else for it, Neuron can’t be crying for him too.

That’s when his girlfriend comes over. At least, Spencer’s been calling her that. If he and Ryan were talking about it Ryan wouldn’t approve of the title; he thinks sex is a crucial part of a relationship. Not that they’ve talked a lot recently, and every time he tries to talk about Tabitha Ryan is suddenly busy. It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to have sex with her. It’s not Spencer’s fault that she says the bubbles might give her a yeast infection and she doesn’t want to risk it. He can't push it after that, only douchebags pressure girls for sex.

She puts her hand on his shoulder and keeps it there, even after it skids from the slickness of burst bubbles. “When they had me I was thinking about all the things I’d never done, you know? And I thought of you, and I realised that if we did something, you’d be wearing a condom and that’s sort of like your overalls, right? So it would be safe.”

A week ago he’d be thrilled to hear it. A week ago he’d have been calm and cool in front of her, but then he'd have run around the school high fiving people. Shit, he might have even skipped, if Brendon had been around to convince him it was okay. He would have gotten suggestions and tips from Ryan, and if he’s being honest he probably would have forgotten all of them the moment he saw her naked. But a lot can happen in a week, and it’s not until he sees her that he realises he never asked Map Walker where she was, and Map, one of the most perceptive non-telepaths in the school, had never thought to tell him. And he really doesn’t have time to have sex right now.

“Not now. I need to figure out where Ryan is.”

“But _Spencer_. I’m telling you I want to have, you know, s. e. x.” If he was here, Ryan would be rolling his eyes, pointing out that the younger kids can in fact spell three letter words, and Spencer all of a sudden craves his sarcasm. 

Tabitha leans on him, hair sticking to the bubbles where his neck isn’t covered. It's purely instinctual, Spencer pushes her away. “Would you fuck off!”

She flounces away at that, shooting him the ugliest possible look. Spencer guesses he doesn’t have a girlfriend anymore, and since she goes straight to one of her friends he’s going to go out on a limb and say within hours everyone will think he’s a bastard with a small dick. Girls have a tendancy to stick together and spread information like that. If they believe it, he’ll never get a girlfriend. A week ago he would have freaked out, but right now he doesn’t really care about that kind of drama, he only wants Ryan.

Holy shit, he only wants Ryan. He _wants_ wants Ryan. Spencer pushes back through the crowd until he finds Brendon, looking happy wrapped in Jubilee’s arms. Normally he’d congratulate Brendon for having enough control to make his force field go away, but he’s got bigger issues right now. “Did you know I was in love with Ryan?”

“Uh,” Brendon says, voice muffled from Jubilee’s shoulder. He looks up at Spencer for a moment and then buries his head again. Which means a) yes, and b) he’s feeling guilty.

“Because I know I’m not good with that shit, but you are, and you should have known.” More importantly, Brendon should have told him. How the hell was he supposed to know that his feelings for Ryan aren’t just friendship feelings, when this is the way he’s felt forever?

“You didn’t seem like you want to know. You were happier in Summerlin not knowing, and then you got a new girlfriend as soon as you got here.”

“Don’t have her anymore, I sort of blew her off. For Ryan, who isn’t fucking _here_. Can you help me find Map, and maybe whoever else was on the jet?”

“Sorry ‘Lee. Duty’s calling,” Brendon says, and pulls away from her. Spencer’s grateful for the help, the basketball court is slowly filling as more and more teens from safehouses one and two show up. It’ll be harder now to find anyone that knows anything than it would have been five minutes ago.

*

“Map Walker told me Friday night Ryan was with you. He was still with you on Saturday in some field, and Sunday at Alkali Lake, and then I stopped asking because everyone was bugging him and Shutter said he’d knock out the next asshole that bothered Map. He says he’s in fucking Pittsburgh now. What the hell happened!”

Bobby shifts his weight from foot to foot. Nevermind Shutter, Spencer looks like he’s going to knock him out. It’s sort of amazing that someone bright pink can look that angry, but there’s no question that if Rogue wasn’t looking at him expectantly he’d be inching away. “At Alkali, John wanted to help the teachers, but they’d told us to stay on the jet. We told him, but John decided to go anyway. Ryan went with him. They weren’t on the jet when we left, we figured they went with Magneto and Mystique.”

“See Spence, it’s okay. If he’s in Pittsburgh he’s definitely with Magneto and Mystique, not kidnapped by the military a second time.”

“Of course he’s with Magneto, Brendon. There were two ways off the lake and piss for brains and his useless girlfriend made sure he wasn’t taking the way home.” He turns back to them, and his tone hardens. “How fucking condescending and douchey were you?”

“We didn’t say anything, they just left,” Rogue informs them haughtily. Bobby usually doesn’t mind the tone from her, but right now he wants to tell her to cut it out. Spencer doesn’t look like he’ll tolerate it for long.

Brendon tilts his head in a questioning response. “Did you even, like, try to get them to stay? Tell them it was dangerous, or that the teachers needed you to mount a second line of defense at the jet in case someone came out to the grounds and noticed it? I dunno, something?”

“We are not responsible for their choices,” Rogue snaps back. Bobby’s not sure that’s true. Lately John’s done a lot of shit to try to get Bobby’s attention. Trying to play hero was probably his last ditch effort. Rogue might not be responsible, but Bobby can see how maybe he’s pushed John to that level.

“We’re going.” Spencer crosses his arms after he finishes speaking. The sudden pressure on the sleeves of his fleece shirt is enough to wring burst bubble fluid out, creating a small pool around his feet.

“What?”

“We’re going to Pittsburgh or I am going to drown you in soap.” Bobby stares at Spencer incredulously. He’s short and kind of pudgy and bright freakin’ pink, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person that could murder without feeling remorse. “I hope it doesn’t look like I’m kidding, or overexaggerating. I’m really not. Back in Summerlin I never would have thought of it. But the government tried to kill me, almost experimented on my ex-girlfriend, and have for all intents and purposes killed Jean Grey. I’m done fucking around.”

“Okay, but why we? If you want to get Ryan, why do you need me?”

“Because you’re the reason this happened, fucktard. Ryan’s always felt alone, and thanks to _you_ -” a shove to the chest leaves a wet handprint on his shirt, “Ryan found someone as lonely as him and decided he had to save him. Ryan’s not going to abandon him, so you need to get your bullshit figured out first.”

“How would we get there?” With Jean Grey dead Scott’s not going to notice if one of his cars is missing, but Professor Xavier will.

“Bobby! You can’t really think about going.”

He shrugs, uncomfortable. “I made a mistake.”

“You picked me, Bobby!”

“Yeah, he _said_ he made a mistake,” Spencer glares. Rogue shrinks even as Brendon is saying his name reproachfully and putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder.

After that there’s not much left to say. He takes five minutes to change out of the clothes he’s been wearing the last few days, Spencer takes ten to drain his overalls and switch shirts. They grab a few cans of soda out of the fridge and head to the garage. Xavier pops into their heads to ask what they’re doing as Spencer turns the key. Bobby’s been at the school long enough to be able to answer silently, Spencer says rather loudly that he’s rescuing Ryan, like he should have, and rounds it off with calling him a fucker. Professor Xavier doesn’t say anything, at least not to Bobby.

The drive to Pennsylvania is long, over seven hours when you tally in the time spent in the slowest fast food drive-through Bobby’s even been in. At least this time he’s got his iPod, a steady discography instead of Ryan switching the radio every three seconds and harassing Rogue while doing so. Spencer’s complete blanking him out is better than two skinny brunets sniping at him in the backseat. And Spencer will never press his thigh against his then jolt over a foot because the sexual tension has spiked.

Bobby was kind of expecting an underground lair, or a cave. Something that gave off the fortress feel. It just doesn’t seem right when Spencer pulls to a stop in front of a suburban house. He’s up the sidewalk before Spencer is. There’s a plaque on the door that says no solicitors, but Bobby rings the door anyway. All he’s trying to sell is a future.

John answers, which sucks. He was kind of counting on that one last moment to prepare himself and think of something good to say. Everything he’s come up with in the last seven hours has sounded stupid, even to his own brain. If he says any of it John will rip the words apart. Obviously annoyed with the silence John glares and demands “what the fuck do you want?” Only he doesn’t mean it, Bobby can see it in his eyes. John’s glad he tracked him down.

He opens his mouth, but doesn’t have the time to say anything before he’s interrupted by Spencer pushing past first him then John. It boosts him, how driven Spencer is to get his and Ryan’s relationship fixed. “Would you just come home?”

John snorts. “Home is where people want you to be. At least here Magneto and Mystique want me.”

“They want you to be a terrorist!”

“Look at who we’re terrorising!” He’s got a point. Logan killed a bunch of military guys Friday night and Bobby only felt relieved at each one falling, more of a chance to get away safely. John attacked the police, but only after they tried to shoot them dead. Then there’s the every day bigoted shitheads like his brother and everyone else who protests Bobby’s mere existence.  

Bobby attempts to regroup. He can’t win the ‘Magneto’s doing a bad thing’ argument, but there has to be another way. “I want you there.”

“You didn’t say that when I went and changed rooms.”

“I want you now.”

He smirks. “That’s nice.”

“Goddamn it John-”

“Pyro,” he corrects.

“Pyro, I want to make out with you. Or at least I do when you’re not being such a huge asshole.”

He looses his cool, but only for a moment. “I thought Rogue gave you a better relationship?”

“Case in point with the asshole thing.” Bobby sighs and runs his fingers through his hair before he continues. “We both know I went with Rogue because it was easier. I’m ready for something harder.” A three second pause and then he adds “that sounded a lot less dirty in my head.”

“And you’re not going to jump back into her poisonous arms the first time Piotr questions your manliness?”

That’s not exactly fair, to her or him. But then he hasn’t been fair with John in months, so it evens out. “The quicker you pack any stuff you might have, the sooner we can be making out.”

“Fuck it, the shirts can stay. Where’s our ride?” Bobby smirks back, almost the first time he’s used the expression. It feels good, he can understand why John does it so often. It’s gonna be an awesome seven hours.

*

After careful consideration, Ray decides not to out himself. It’s a hard decision to make, multiple reasons stacking up on both sides. He had known better than to ask anyone for their thoughts. The problem with being easy-going in a group of highly opinionated people is it’s easy to take on their thoughts instead of having your own. It would be all too easy to follow in the footsteps of the other members and come out without thinking about the consequences.

The bottom line is it’s just easier to say quiet about it. While he’s of like mind with Frank and Gerard about being pro-mutant and fuck any bigoted fans and a loss of revenue, Ray’s external influences are different than theirs. Don and Donna had to have known their eldest was obsessed with mutants, their youngest not that much better. It’s probably more of a surprise to them that Mikey isn’t lying about being a mutant too then that Gerard is. And the Ieros have been dealing with multiple Franks for over a dozen years now, early manifestation allowing him to sneak out of his bedroom in junior high to go to three concerts instead of one. None of Ray’s family know he’s a mutant. It’s not that they are Friends Of Humanity, the Toros aren’t bigots. The problem lies in that he hasn’t told them anything for fifteen years. If he tells them now they’ll want to know when it started, and when he tells them tenth grade they’ll want to know why he never told them, and once they know he was too scared to, they’ll only feel sad and offended.

Worse than hurting his brothers and parents, Christa’s family are firm in their anti-mutant stance. They’re Senator Kelly believers, they donate and go to blue plate dinners for the chance to talk to him and shake his hand. It’s bad enough that he’s in a band with some of ‘those type’, a conversation he is not looking forward to having next Christmas. If he came out as a mutant the pressure on her to stop dating him would be incredible. Ray’s confident in their love, he’s sure she wouldn’t bow to their demands. Still, he would hate to put her in that position. He’s been lucky enough to have been born with an easily concealed ability, and unless he’s on the bus he has to take advantage of being able to hide.

As a flatscan though, he can still do damage. You don’t have to be part of a minority to make noise about how shitty it can be to be a minority. It’s why he puts the entry on mychemicalromance.com, making sure to link to it on Facebook and Twitter.

> Dear MCRMY,

> Things have gotten pretty intense in the world lately. All you have to do is turn on the news and you see a lot of hate. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that it should not be allowed to continue. It doesn’t matter if you’re mutant or flatscan, it’s wrong no matter what the circumstance. The lone man or woman might not be able to make the authorities stop their insane power trips, but each vote denying them a seat in the next election helps. You might not be eighteen now, but you will be one day, and unfortunately mutant rights will probably still be an issue then. For each hateful comment, all it takes is someone to tell them to shut the hell up. We know you can be that brave.

> We believe everyone should stand loud and proud. It is important to defend yourselves, and defend what’s right. And sometimes if you do you’ll get rewarded for your courage.

> We are now accepting photograph submissions to win spots for Meet and Greets. Your picture must include yourself and some sort of protest item at a counter-protest. Only one submission per person will be accepted. Unfortunately, we will be not able to meet all of you, as much as we would like to. But know that every submission is viewed and greatly appreciated, not just by us, but by the mutant community.

> Thank you,  
> Ray

It only takes minutes for the pictures to start flowing in. Ray wasn’t expecting any until tomorrow, when fans had had a chance to go out and wave their own sign in the face of a FOHer. That some already have photos, have already protested without any sort of prompting or possibility of reward makes him proud.

Apparently they are proud of him too. Each tweet says something about it being a great idea, or thanking them for spreading awareness. On Facebook people are Liking it, and putting the request on their wall so everyone can see. Lou thinks all this media shit is shallow, but when #Westchesterschool is trending because Mikey got the word out, Ray can’t help but disagree.

Every time he refreshes there are more. Ray can’t stop scrolling and opening them in new tabs. Sooner or later they’ll have to figure out a more methodical way of doing this, but for now he just wants to look at everything. His favourite is a girl with her arms tattooed to look like scales flipping off a protester, until it’s a ten year old girl in a halter top to give room for her wings, sprinkling confetti, until it’s a person of indiscriminate gender with headphones carefully between the spikes of their mohawk, shirt scrawled with Sharpie _Mutcore Lives!_

There’s no way My Chem qualifies as a mutcore band, no matter what the interviewers are saying. Only he and Frank and Frankie collapsed the first round of the attack. He’s heard that a lot of people with latent genes triggered into their powers that moment, but the Ways and Bob weren’t in the group, as much as Mikey and Gerard might have wanted to.

At the time he was just freaked out about the horrible feedback screeching through his head. Watching half his band going down a moment later was just as worrisome. Looking back now though, it’s kind of amazing that Frank didn’t absorb himself in his spasming. The honest truth is Frank has more control of his ability. When Ray’s sleeping his hair cocoons around his face and it takes a good five minutes in the morning to convince it to settle, but Frank can maintain his duplicates even when he’s asleep or unconscious.

Ray can’t help but wonder how long he’s going to maintain Frankie. He’s never seen Frank sustain a duplicate so long, normally they’re gone within hours, sometimes minutes. It’s gone unsaid, but the entirety of the tour knows he has no ideas about absorbing himself any time soon. Frank is with Gee, and Frankie is with Mikey, and no one is sure what’ll happen when they merge. It’s easier for everyone if there’s two. And it’ll probably make Meet and Greets easier too, if the fans have more than one Frank to get their picture taken with.

*

Sometimes, if Jon concentrates hard enough, he can pinpoint not just what state and street and house somebody is in, but what room, and where in the room. It’s not surefire, he doesn’t have that much control yet to make it work every time. If he tries and his brain’s not feeling it it’ll only give him a headache to try harder. But he’s curious so when he pinpoints Pyro and he’s no longer in Pennsylvania but Pompton Lakes Jon pushes that extra inch. There’s a difference between Pyro coming back to Westchester and everything being okay. As far as he can tell Pyro’s in the back seat. Another pinpoint says Bobby’s in the back seat too. It’s not as good as telepathy, but it’s a good sign that they’re sitting next to each other.

That done, the next thing is to check on Cassie. Normally he just checks where she’s sitting in home room; Jon’s old school was frighteningly hardcore in it’s ‘this section of the room/table/hallway/object belongs to this clique’ routines. Cassie sitting in a certain area would prove things to him that no email could. But it’s too early for that, six am here means five in Chicago. So instead he pinpoints her in her house, in her bed, and then reaches to check where the exchange student is. She says she’s not dating anyone, she’s waiting until he can come back home -not until he graduates and can get a job, right now he couldn’t keep himself clothed and fed, and he’s never going back to his parents again- but sometimes Jon’s not sure. She’s so hot and funny and awesome that any guy or lesbian would want her, and he’s not there to make everyone back off. Instead of learning if Jacques is in bed beside her, he gets an icepick to the eye. Clearly there will be no more smart bomb accuracy this morning.

It’s not long after that when Shutter wakes up. On the way back from the bathroom he stops at Jon's bed for a moment. “Go back to sleep, Map. Cass won’t cheat on you, you know that. Your friends haven’t so much as emailed you in a month, so you shouldn’t care if they’re sleeping soundly. And studying the four of them won’t make them come home faster, and it won’t make them less stupid.”

Jon shrugs, not that Shutter will notice. Around him Shutter doesn’t blink very often, says he doesn’t need to. “They’re not stupid, some people take longer than others to figure out their shit.” He doesn’t want to talk about his friends. His parents' betrayal was swift, his buddies long drawn abandonment hurts much more. For the longest time he’s had only Shutter. Now, though, he thinks Brendon and Spencer might be friends, at least if they stay at the school long enough.

“Fine, spy. I don’t care. I’m going back to bed. It’s not even six thirty yet.”

Jon keeps up to date with their location and when they’re coming up to the gate he goes to meet them in the garage. He’s the only one waiting, though there’s no doubt that Professor Xavier has acknowledged their presence. Too curious to wait for answers, all his questions stumble out in a row. “Come on, what happened? How was the trip? Are you together now? Why did you two run away anyway?”

“Before you get the stories of our lives I want to stretch out on a bed. Seven hours in the back seat sucks.”

“We were gonna stay overnight, but then Spencer bitched out Sabretooth. Magneto told us to leave,” Bobby elaborates.

Pyro shrugs, accentuating the action with a flick of his Zippo lid. “Whatever. The big bastard shouldn’t have growled at Lume.”

“Lume?”

“Ryan’s switching from his middle name to his own name,” Spencer explains. Jon nods. He can understand that. When his parents got the results of the genetic test back and told him he wasn’t their son was he stopped letting people call him Jon. He figures the day he can automatically think of himself as Map, not self-correct, will be the day he stops feeling hurt about their decision.

“No, seriously. Moving now. I’m up for talking or video games or whatever the hell, but I’m doing it with shoes off and legs out.” With that said Pyro leads the way through the school, explaining his side of events starting from Friday night. The first stop is in the kitchen to get a few bags of chips, the second is one of the multiple lounges. Aside from that kid that Jon always forgets the name of that can blink and change electromagnetic waves, they’re the only ones awake, so there’s no sense in crowding in with him.

They’ve only just got the console turned on though, before Lume and Spencer decide that Brendon will kill them if they don’t wake him up for post-dawn video games. Jon gets up to follow them. If he wants to be close friends that includes joining them in treks. Pyro and Bobby stand too, Pyro mentioning something about wanting to get more lighter fluid. It quickly turns into a procession; Brendon’s room to wake his ass up so he doesn’t bitch later that he missed the party, then Lume and Pyro’s room to top up Pyro’s lighter, then Jon’s so he can pull a hoodie on. The last room is Bobby and Spencer’s. Well, it is now. Jon gives it until the end of the day for Lume and Bobby to switch back. Unless Professor Xavier decides to be a prude and not let couples stay in the same room. In the time he’s been here, it hasn’t come up.

Jon’s the last in the room and the scene is already almost over. Rogue is in Bobby’s bed, and for an instant her arm is on Spencer’s arm, his pink skin turning flesh pale. Then the bed goes crashing into the window. No longer attached to a life force drainer, Spencer drops to his knees. Lume’s hand is gently on his back, and there’s pure hate in his eyes. Jon can guess with confidence that he will not be forgiving her like Wolverine did.

“My first deliberate turning it on. It’s easier than turning it off.” Brendon is mostly talking to himself, and now is not the time, but Jon makes a mental note to congratulate him later.

“Get out of our room Rogue,” Pyro snaps. She looks at Bobby like she’s expecting him to say something. When he doesn’t she storms out.

Positive that no one else is going to be willing to chase her down and try to figure this out, Jon leaves. She’s not far down the hall, and his legs are longer than hers, it doesn’t take much to catch up. “You can’t just take other mutant’s powers. It hurts them.”

Rogue’s arms cross tightly over her body, face setting mulishly. “I don’t know how you get in here a second time, but you’re not making me leave again.”

Jon tries to parse that, like if he thinks about that it’ll make sense. When it doesn’t he attempts to clarify his last statement. “I actually have no idea what you’re talking about. But you really need to make sure you keep your gloves on. Did you see how much that hurt Spencer? And Pyro said you did it to him at Bobby’s parents’ house. He said it was like you were raping him.”

“Walker, since you’re nice I’m going to let you in on a few important things even though they’re all none of your damn business. One, I don’t care how St. John felt, if I hadn’t done that he would have roasted everyone.” From how Lume and Bobby tell it the cops were trying to kill all of them, and they’d already killed Wolverine. He doesn’t bother to point it out though, just lets her rant. “Two, there’s no reason for me to have been wearing gloves at six in the morning which was when you all burst in like idiots. Three, I don’t really care that I hurt Spencer. Thanks to his influence, and thanks to you and all your stupid group, my boyfriend has turned into a fag.”

Well, shit. “You’re kind of a psycho bitch, aren’t you?”

“At least I’m not a traitorous _queer_. Tell them to stay away from me, or I might let an elbow slip.”

Jon watches her until she starts up the flight of stairs. Only once he’s sure that she’s not going to charge the guys does he go back to the room. If she’s this upset they’re going to have to keep their eyes open for the next while. He doesn’t want anyone hurt, and he’s sure none of them do either. It would be ridiculous to have made it out of a short lived military siege only to be killed by a pissed off ex-girlfriend.

*

“You flew them to California when you don’t even know if the drummer can drum, and their bassist quit.” It’s not a question, Andy knows the facts. It’s not even said in a resigned tone, he’s too used to Pete for that.

Pete’s pacing, but more a manic way than a something’s wrong way. It’s easy to see the difference, even being gone so long. “I face your wild-”

“True!” Joe interrupts.

“-allegations with three facts. One, between you and Spencer you’ll figure something out. Two, while they lost their first bassist, they’ve picked up a second one. One who’s family doesn’t acknowledge him, stupid bigoted fuckers, so he’ll be better for touring, no rookie homesickness. Three, I didn’t fly them here, company dime or my own. Kurt dropped them off.”

“Who the hell is Kurt?”

Joe arches his back from where he’s lying on Pete’s couch to look at Andy, grinning like he’s just smoked a bowl. Which is entirely possible, really. “Dude, he’s awesome. He’s got this great accent, he’s from Germany, he was in the freakin circus. He went with scarification over tattooing in the great race of body modification, he’s covered in spirals and shit. And when he teleports there’s this bad ass cloud of smoke. He’s supposed to pick them up when they’re done.”

“And if he doesn’t they’ll send the jet. Professor Xavier appreciates the existence of mutcore bands, and he especially likes when they’re signed to mainstream labels,” Pete adds.

Andy can understand that. It’s the same as Adam Lambert being signed with RCA, or a straightedge band on Reprise. The more of a voice outsiders get, the better their message gets across. But it still only works if all four members can control themselves enough to get on a stage. From what he’s heard guitarist just makes his own light show, and the singer only needs enough room that if he triggers a force field in nerves no person or amp crashes to the floor. “What’s the bassist do?”

“Map? Nothing that’ll matter on stage, he can find individual people like he has a map in his head. Hence the name. Might be a good skill if he was a roadie, and I’d hate to see him as a stalker fan. But as a musician? Can’t see it mattering.”

Which means that only the drummer has issues, and apparently Pete thinks that he’ll be the one to solve them all. Andy’s never really like drum gloves. They make him feel like he doesn’t have any control. But they should have the opposite affect for Spencer, especially if they can get a custom fleece laced pair. The more absorbent the better.

There’s a practice space in the basement of Pete and Patrick’s house. It’s not quite recording studio quality, but it’s not a cracked cement garage or trampled grass backyard either. Andy makes it halfway down before he gets a first in person look at the band Pete’s about to produce. They’re not practicing, just playing cards, what looks like Hearts. He hopes for their sake it’s not the deck from the cabinet in the coffee table, because it’s missing the king of spades and the six of diamonds. Andy’s eye is drawn to Spencer, sitting close enough to Ryan that there’s no way their hands are secret to each other. He’s wearing overalls. Andy’s not exactly a Gucci clothes hound, but overalls are for preschoolers. If Pete’s going for marketable -and between Brendon’s eyes framed in red rectangle glasses and Ryan’s skintight shirt Andy’s guessing he is- overalls aren’t really going to fit the pretty indie emo look. He turns on the stairs and marches back up.

“You realise that Spencer’s not going to fit the aesthetic you’re going for, right? Shaggy hair or not, he’s wearing _overalls_.” He shouldn’t have to explain music versus image to Pete, they’ve both been around long enough.

“Do you mock a blind guy’s cane too? They’re custom, they soak up the burst bubbles without leaking, and collect at the bottom so he’s not leaving a trail of soap. We’ll get him a black pair with a black shirt and he’ll blend into the background. Or he’ll wear those proudly, because he’s a fucking mutant and MTV better recognise.” Pete’s tone drops a notch. “I’m not asking you to deal with this, you’ve got Damned Things. I just want you to give him some advice, if he needs it.”

When Pete puts it that way he can’t refuse, it would be a dick move. He goes back through the kitchen, and meets Brendon and Map at the top of the stairs. “Going down?” Map asks pleasantly. Andy nods and Map takes a step down so he can move behind Brendon, leaving Andy enough room to pass them on the staircase. Map mutters something that sounds like _you’re not the only one_ , but Andy doesn’t bother to ask for clarification. He’s not the best people person in the world, it’s Pete and Joe’s job to be friends with everyone. His job is to make sure Spencer’s gonna work out.

It takes Andy about thirty seconds to figure out what Map meant. Mind full of things he did not need to see, Andy retreats to the living room for a second time. More than the shitty clothing, this is something Pete really needs to know. “You know your drummer and guitarist are having sex?”

“Oh, they’re having sex now? When I went into the basement earlier they were just making out.”

“You don’t see a potential issue?”

Pete shrugs. “We did fine.”

“There are a lot more No Doubts than Pete and Patricks!” Intraband fucking is never a good idea, everybody in the music scene knows it.

“Look,” Andy startles at the voice behind him. He didn’t know Brendon could sneak up on people, he thought he had a radius no one could pass. “It’s great that you care enough to be upset. But Spence and Ryan went through a lot of shit to end up together. Like, a ton. They don’t need a talking to, and they don’t need people telling them to break up for the sake of the band. So just don’t, kay?”

Andy shrugs. It’s entirely his place to say it, Damned Things is his tenth band, he knows what he’s talking about. But if they’re willing to take a chance, it’s their choice. Everyone should always have the chance to make their own choices.


End file.
